Pieces On Earth
by Dramatic Surgeon
Summary: When B.J. faces a crisis, Hawkeye's solution may bring more harm than good. No slash.
1. Cold Snap

**NOTE: This story is a semi-sequel to my previous fanfic, "It Ends Here Tonight". While "Pieces On Earth" stands on its own merit, I'm giving fair warning that future chapters will occasionally reference events from that story.**

**Reviews are welcome. ****A****s with my other works, the story itself is finished, but I'd like to see how it will be received before continuing to upload it.**

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Green fields and warm sunshine were now just a dream. A gray, weary sky looked down on the creatures below, unaware of—or perhaps indifferent to—their plight. The sun had long ago retreated from its battle with the gloom and now nestled inside its cloudy haven, much like the earthbound people cocooned within their olive drab parkas. A brisk wind swept through the mountainside, bringing with it the bone-chilling reminder that winter had firmly landed in Korea.

The only movement seen in the frost-dusted camp was that of personnel scurrying either to the nearest source of warmth, usually within their tent (or, in some cases, someone else's tent) or trudging away from it to start their shift—accompanied by various curses uttered through chattering teeth. It was for this reason that the jeep bearing overdue mail, usually descended upon within seconds by the desperate and homesick, was able to coast unimpeded to the doors of the company clerk's office.

Anyone looking would have seen a figure emerge from the office, wrapped from head to toe in at least three scarves, two pairs of gloves and a floor-length fur coat that looked more at home on Fifth Avenue than a MASH compound. The figure hoisted the bag out of the jeep with a groan. Swearing softly, he managed to drag it through the doors and began sorting it. His breath made misty patterns in the air as he worked, which only added to his ire; he _hated_ winter in Korea.

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Several feet away in another tent, one of the camp's doctors was thinking the exact same thing. Hawkeye Pierce sat next to the stove, debating what needed to be remedied first: the danger of hypothermia, or his exponentially increasing boredom. The shortage of readily available wood had already forced him to burn the magazines he'd saved throughout the year, which he did with a small pang of regret—_poor Lisette, you and your volleyballs won't soon be forgotten_—and the fire still threatened to die out.

After several minutes, an idea struck him that would take care of both problems. Soon he had set up a hastily constructed slingshot on a nearby desk, with two pencils and a sleep mask belonging to one of his roommates, the inimitable Charles Emerson Winchester...

"The third," Hawkeye finished aloud as he opened the hinged door to the furnace. He had also crumpled a number of the major's personal stationary sheets and piled them up like cannonballs next to the slingshot. "All right, men," he addressed the paper ammunition as though they were troops headed into combat, "remember, Boston gave her best so that we may have warmth. When you go in there, give it all you've got. Freedom, liberty and equality—not to mention my fingers—are counting on you."

He loaded one of the balls into the slingshot and aimed it at the furnace—_thwap_. An inch too far to the right. He reloaded and took another shot. _Clunk_. A direct hit, rewarded by the fire glowing a little brighter. One by one, the paper missiles were launched—_clunk_.

_Thwap_.

_Clunk_.

_Clunk_.

_Thwap—_"Hey!"

Corporal Maxwell Klinger had opened the door just in time for a paper ball to hit him squarely in the stomach. "Is that any way to treat a clerk bearing gifts?" he asked, swiftly shutting the door behind him.

"Klinger, get out of the way. I'm trying to save Boston."

"If Boston produces people like Major Winchester, it's too late." Klinger eyed the sleep mask slingshot. "Looks like you found a better use for that thing. Does he know about it?"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt me," Pierce replied. "What's this about gifts?"

"Oh, right." Klinger reached into the satchel on his shoulder and pulled out a small stack of mail, wincing slightly at the resulting shout of joy. "Looks like the Army finally remembered this part of the map."

"It's about time," Hawkeye commented, sizing up the number of envelopes in Klinger's hand. "After I finished with Charles' stationary I was going to move onto his socks. What have we got?"

"Let's see...one for the husband," Klinger replied, tossing the letter onto the cot of Hawkeye's other roommate, B.J. Hunnicut. "Three for the royal pain," he continued as the envelopes sailed onto Winchester's bed. He held up the two remaining letters towards Hawkeye, who greedily snatched them out of his hand.

"And two for the doctor who lives on Swamp Lane," Hawkeye finished, ripping open an envelope. "Good work, Klinger, you've brought us reading material _and _a future fuel source. Give yourself a commendation for being so resourceful."

Klinger snorted. "Only if that commendation comes in the form of a plane ticket with the words 'one-way' and 'Toledo' on it." He glanced at the single envelope on B.J.'s bunk with a puzzled expression. "I wonder if some of our mail is still floating around somewhere. Cap'n Hunnicut usually gets enough letters to put me in traction."

"Consider yourself lucky. We're charging extra for hernia operations this month," Pierce replied absently as he scanned one of his letters. "Santa came in with a slipped disc from all the toys he was lugging around, and we had to keep Rudolph for collateral."

"Fine, just keep him in your tent," Klinger retorted. "I get so little sleep these days as it is without a reindeer eating my carbon paper and leaving presents on my morning reports."

"Does that mean this place is turning into a red light district?" Hawkeye asked, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "I don't mind, but you may have some trouble with the zoning laws."

"Are you kidding me? I don't need the extra paperwork," Klinger replied. He shivered as a stray gust of wind seeped through the tent flaps. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few other mail-deprived subscribers ready to take their dissatisfaction out on my hide." He wrapped his fur coat tighter around him and slipped through the door, leaving Pierce to huddle next to the stove.

Hawkeye read through his letters, both from his father, catching up on the latest news in Maine. Memories of celebrating Christmas in his hometown drifted through his mind, and he briefly forgot the constant chill sweeping across his skin. Memories of better days...of cranberry apple pies, girls in velvet coats under the stars, the warm glow of the fireplace reflected in his father's eyes...

He slowly came back to reality and sighed. A half-buried fear gnawed at the back of his mind: the war had already taken precious moments away that they could have spent with loved ones, moments they would never get back. What else would they lose before it was over?

His melancholy was steadily replaced by ever-present boredom, and he had already used up his supply of paper cannonballs. His gaze rested on Winchester's socks, then almost involuntarily snapped over to the letter on B.J.'s cot.

At first he couldn't believe what he was thinking. After all, it wasn't even his letter. Then again, he rationalized, B.J. was bound to tell him what it said anyway—several times, in fact. Many more times if it involved something his daughter said or did. Where was the harm if it just happened to be opened when he got it?

As boredom warred with his conscience, his hand reached across the bunk and closed around the letter. That decided the matter for him; if B.J. asked, he could always say he couldn't wait to hear what new phrase little Erin Hunnicut had invented this time.

Unsealing the envelope with utmost care, he slid the letter out and unfolded it. As his eyes moved down the page, his curiosity and boredom rapidly gave way to concern, then fear:

_Darling,_

_I wish my letter brought happy news, because I know how much you need to hear it. But the truth is things haven't been very happy here, either. I wanted to tell you on the phone so I could hear your voice, but the operator told me the harsh weather where you are is making phone contact impossible. _

_Erin caught what I thought was the flu a week ago, but she's only been getting worse. I took her to see Dr. Bergen, who suggested I bring her to the hospital for tests. I'm sure you would understand the results better than I do, but the doctors there think it might be viral encephalitis. They're giving her medication, but it doesn't seem to be working yet._

_I was hoping she would get better quickly so I wouldn't have to worry you. I struggled for so long whether I should tell you anything because I know how upset you must be, but I didn't feel it was right to hide this from you. _

_I don't remember a time when I've been so frightened, and I wish now more than ever that you were here. But I understand why you can't be with me, so I'll do my best to stay strong in your absence. I promise to keep writing so I can keep you updated, and if the phone lines clear up you can look forward to a call._

_Take care of yourself, B.J., and don't ever forget that I love you. --Peg_

Hawkeye read through the letter several more times. His fingers were numb, but not from the cold. _God, Beej_, he thought to himself. B.J. had been more withdrawn as of late, and his friends could tell it wasn't from the weather. He'd already been showing signs of depression since Thanksgiving, grumbling how Christmas was creeping up and he was thousands of miles from where he wanted to be. This was going to utterly destroy him.

Pierce's finger absently traced the outside of the envelope as he considered what to do. His first instinct was to head towards post-op and break the news as gently as possible. But as he stood up, a memory surfaced that stopped him before he could take a single step.

He remembered the letter B.J. had received not so long ago with news about his daughter that didn't go over well. Images he'd pushed far from his mind returned with alarming clarity: B.J.'s bitter smile, a shattered still—a shattered spirit on the floor of the Colonel's office.

And...the pain. Hawkeye winced involuntarily as he recalled B.J.'s fist connecting with his cheekbone, sending him flying across the tent. He had long since forgiven his roommate for the unwelcome surprise, but didn't relish the thought of dealing with an angry, drunk, desolate father again anytime soon. And all that commotion over his daughter making the adorably innocent mistake of calling someone else "Daddy".

_And this is far more serious. What'll he do this time?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the slam of a tent door followed by a familiar voice—"I left my shift early and put a snowman in my chair as a decoy. I don't think anyone will notice, unless they happen to ask a question and realize I'm melting into a puddle." Hawkeye froze at the sound; it was B.J.

He wasn't sure what made him hide the letter. Maybe he wanted to spare a man already suffering an acute case of homesickness from even further pain. Maybe it was for fear of what that man would become when the news was revealed; he'd already witnessed the "Mr. Hyde" lurking in the depths of B.J.'s easygoing nature and wasn't in any rush to see it again. Whatever the reason, Pierce felt his fingers deftly slide the letter underneath his own mail as B.J. sat down across from him with a groan.

"The Army can import chipped beef and creamed corn to Korea—not to mention import _us_. Would it be a stretch to ask them to send us some sun?" the Californian complained between shivers. Noticing the letters in Hawkeye's hand, he asked, "Is that what I think it is?"

"Freshly picked from Crabapple Cove," Pierce answered, subconsciously holding his thumb over the Mill Valley address on the bottom envelope.

"It's about time. In this place even two weeks is long enough to make you think Korea's the only place left on Earth." B.J. glanced down at his cot, and Hawkeye fought back the guilt as he watched the man's puzzled expression.

"Y'know, Klinger did say he thought there was more mail on its way," he assured his friend quickly. "There's probably a bag floating around somewhere, bursting with letters from California."

"Yeah, probably," B.J. echoed quietly, then fell silent. His expression was strangely distant, making Hawkeye feel even worse. B.J. was in dire need of good news from home to pull him from his misery. And the letter he'd read brought something far from good news...

"The fire's dying." B.J.'s voice snapped Pierce out of his musings. Taking a deep breath, he coughed at the chill that seeped into his lungs.

"We're out of paper, but I have an idea. Grab Charles' socks."

He would tell B.J. soon. Just...not now.


	2. Bitter Chill

**Thank you all for the reviews so far. More are always welcome.**

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"Well, this is a new idea—sharing body heat for something other than recreational purposes," Pierce announced to no one in particular as he slid through the door to the mess tent. He had only opened it a crack, but was met with a chorus of indignation as a flurry of snow accompanied his arrival. The entire camp seemed to have moved inside the tent's walls, making it look more like a small city than a dining area.

Despite the need to huddle, everyone was relieved at the knowledge that the stoves in their sleeping quarters wouldn't be confiscated for other uses (yet). While Hawkeye never had the heart to threaten Radar, Klinger was another matter: after being informed he would wake up one day to find his hands amputated and reattached in an inconvenient location, the Lebanese had decided it was more prudent to leave the stoves where they belonged.

Spotting a few of his companions off in a corner, Pierce made his way over and squeezed in next to Father Mulcahy on the bench. "Is there anyone up there who can help us get rid of the snow, Father?" he asked. Klinger quickly shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"Well, I'm not too familiar with the patron saint of snow, but at this point I think we may have better luck asking Saint Jude to help us," Mulcahy answered as he rubbed his gloved fingertips.

"Good idea. I can't think of any cause that's more hopeless than this," Hawkeye commented offhandedly.

"You think you have problems?" Major Margaret Houlihan complained, her hands wrapped firmly around a cup of questionable-looking coffee. "My nurses have a hole in their tent the size of a baseball, and _somebody _still hasn't gotten it fixed yet."

"Hey, cut me a break, okay?" Klinger replied defensively. "It's not my fault things keep disappearing from the supply tent. Everything that isn't breathing gets used as firewood, and the only thread that hasn't been touched is strictly for surgical purposes."

"That's not good enough," Margaret shot back irritably. "If we don't have the materials, get on the phone and _order _them like you're supposed to! My girls work hard and they're an important part of this unit, they shouldn't have to settle for plugging the hole with their laundry! They deserve—"

"Major, I'm only human, I can't—"

"He's doing what he can, Margaret," Hawkeye piped up. "Besides, he's contributing to the health and well-being of the male staff here. Maybe you could even turn it into a window if you tr—"

"Will you stay out of this?!" Margaret screeched, trying to split her angry gaze between the two offenders. Turning to the gray-haired man sitting next to her, she added, "Colonel, can't you do something?"

Colonel Potter, who had been doing a good imitation of Father Mulcahy trying to blend into the background, answered calmly, "I am, Major. I'm steering clear of this tornado until it blows over." He smiled slightly at Mulcahy's murmured "Amen" in response. Hawkeye chuckled until something small and flat poked him in the ribs, then sobered immediately.

Two days had passed since he hid the letter. Originally he had planned to tell B.J. of his discovery that very day at dinner, but as his fingers brushed the envelope the pair overheard an enlisted man boasting about ending his tour just in time to celebrate Christmas with his family. The reaction on his friend's face had immediately changed his mind. The two surgeons returned to their tent in complete silence, and B.J. had turned in early with little more than a half-hearted "G'night".

Since that time Hawkeye had kept the letter close to his heart...literally. Every now and then the envelope would jab him underneath his jacket, reminding him of what he'd done. The secret was gnawing at him, hanging precariously from the tip of his tongue; but every time he saw the pain lingering in B.J.'s eyes, he just couldn't bring himself to add to the man's distress.

"There wouldn't _be_ any tornado if Klinger would just stop making excuses and do his job," Margaret insisted, bringing Hawkeye back to the present.

"The phone lines are down, Major. That's not Klinger's fault," Potter pointed out, with an emphatic "That's right!" from the company clerk. Margaret's answer was drowned out by another grumble of resentment from the crowd as the door opened and B.J. shuffled in. Shaking a layer of snow from his coat and grabbing a mug of coffee, he sidled through the throng of people as Hawkeye moved over to give him room.

"Charles showed up half an hour early for his shift," B.J. explained, settling onto the bench. "Said something about not feigning interest in our 'various extempore pursuits to chase away the proverbial winter blues'—whatever that means." His tone was light-hearted, but no one at the table missed the emptiness in his usually gleaming blue eyes.

"That's just his way of saying he doesn't want to join in any reindeer games," Hawkeye replied. "It's too bad. He would have looked good in antlers." Normally he expected a snappy response from his roommate, but as B.J. studied his coffee Hawkeye knew none would be forthcoming.

After an uncomfortable silence, Colonel Potter eventually cleared his throat. "Hunnicut...you've been moping like a colt that's been penned up too long for weeks." He leaned a little closer to the younger man for emphasis. "Believe me, son, I've spent many a Christmas where Santa wore olive drab pajamas and was escorted by a tank instead of a critter with a red nose. You never get used to the feeling of being away from your loved ones this time of year, but you can take comfort in the fact that people here care about you too." The others murmured their agreement; Hawkeye scratched absently at the letter poking him beneath his jacket.

B.J. offered them a smile he didn't feel. "I know. I guess I'm being a little selfish—I mean, I know I'm not the only one here with a family back home. It just hit me hard. I can't get rid of the feeling that I need to be there right now."

"Well, I don't understand it," Klinger commented. "I thought for sure the letter you got the other day would cheer you up."

Hawkeye's heart fell into his stomach, which threatened to move to another location entirely. He shot Klinger a look that could have set him on fire.

B.J. blinked. "What?"

Oblivious to Pierce's attempts to ignite him, Klinger went on. "I mean, sure, it was only one letter, but maybe your wife is really busy doing Christmas shopping and stuff. I thought you'd be telling us all about what the little tyke's been doing for the holidays, if she's said anythi—" He caught Hawkeye's glare, and his eyes widened. "Uh-oh. What'd I say?"

Hawkeye swallowed hard, and felt all eyes at the table on him. B.J. turned to face him, puzzled. "What letter?"

"Ah...yeah. The letter..." Pierce could barely hear his own voice over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. _Damn it, Klinger_...

B.J. gazed steadily at Hawkeye. He knew the other man well enough by now to see his friend was hiding something very important.

_His eyes_..._I can see it in his eyes. Why didn't I notice it before? _

Hawkeye grabbed B.J.'s coffee and took a gulp without tasting it; suddenly his mouth was very dry. He looked up and saw the others watching him with curious expressions. "Ah, yeah, well...Klinger brought the mail a couple days ago, and I wa—I was bored, and I sort of..." He coughed and focused on the table, wishing he was anywhere in the world other than inside that mess tent...which seemed to be shrinking every second.

Finally, Mulcahy softly gave voice to Pierce's unspoken confession. "Hawkeye...you read his letter?"

The surgeon didn't answer. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet B.J.'s. "Beej...there's—I..."

B.J. met his gaze silently, too stunned to respond. A sharp pang of fear that was mirrored in his friend's eyes told him there was far more to Hawkeye's hesitation than a simple admittance of mail theft.

"Pierce, how could you?" Margaret asked, shocked. "That's pretty low, even for you! I don't care how bored—" B.J. held up a hand to quiet the Major, never taking his eyes from the man next to him. The stricken expression on Pierce's face told him something was very wrong. "Hawk?"

Hawkeye heard the silent, fearful question in B.J.'s voice, and closed his eyes in defeat. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the letter, wordlessly handing it to his friend. B.J. grasped it, forcing back a growing sense of dread. _What's he been hiding? Is Peg leaving me? Do I not even have a family to go back to anymore?_

"What's wrong, Pierce?" Colonel Potter asked quietly, his tone reflecting the sudden tension. Everyone's eyes shifted to B.J. as he slid the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it. Hawkeye waited until the man had been reading for a few seconds before answering weakly, "Erin's...very sick. They—it might be encephalitis..."

He didn't have to finish. Margaret covered her mouth in surprise; Klinger closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Father Mulcahy quickly crossed himself and softly offered a prayer. Potter watched Hawkeye silently, finally understanding the man's reluctance.

B.J. read the letter a second time without actually seeing the words. He put the letter down with trembling fingers and reminded himself to breathe. His eyes snapped up to meet Potter's. "Colonel, I—"

Potter held a hand up to stop him. "I know what you're going to ask, Hunnicut, and there's nothing more I'd like right now than to grant it. I'd even put the call through myself if I could. But thanks to that blanket of snow outside we're still cut off from civilization. No phone calls can get in _or _out."

"There has to be _something_ I can do," B.J. insisted desperately. "The Army's got to have some measures for cases like this. I have to talk to her, to _see _her, Colonel, surely you understand that!"

Potter sighed; he always hated feeling like the villain, especially in these situations. "Son, I can tell you right now the Army's going to deny any kind of discharge for one of their top surgeons as long as your wife is there to take care of her. They won't even want to take a chance with a pass. I can only promise you'll have first crack at the phone lines when we re-establish a connection with the outside world." He saw the anguish in the man's gaze, and his heart broke. "It may not be much, but it's the best I can offer right now."

Hawkeye watched as B.J. stared blankly into space. He wished he had never even _seen_ the letter, let alone opened it. There was something to be said about curiosity and cats...and surgeons too, apparently. "Beej...I'm sor—"

B.J. suddenly turned to look at him with such a ferocious gaze he instinctively recoiled, nearly pushing Father Mulcahy off the bench. Confusion and anger shadowed his friend's face; it was almost electric, raising the hairs on the back of Hawkeye's neck. He froze, bearing a strange resemblance to a deer trapped in headlights.

In one swift motion, B.J. stood from the table and pushed through the crowd towards the mess tent door, ignoring Hawkeye's voice calling after him. The icy night air stabbed his lungs as he threw open the door and stepped out. He had no idea where he was going; he only knew he had to get away.

Fighting the winter chill, he pushed onward through the snow. In his mind's eye he saw his daughter, lying in a hospital bed, crying out for a father who would never come. _No_, he corrected himself bitterly, _she wouldn't ask for her father_..._she doesn't even know me_. After all, what little girl would miss a father who's spent most of her short life in a land she's never heard of? And now, with a single letter from home, he might never even...

_Damn it! Why didn't he say anything? _

The question cut him more deeply than the raw wind slicing through his clothes. How could his best friend do this? What in God's name was he even _thinking_, hiding that letter?

He could feel something rising from deep within, a father's pain entwined with something much darker. Fire surged through his body and he loosened his jacket's collar; despite the weather, suddenly he felt very hot. He wasn't aware of anyone following him until a hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. "Hold up, will ya?"

Hawkeye had raced out of the tent, struggling to keep up with the other man's determined strides through the snow. The frigid air made it difficult for him to breathe, but he noticed B.J. didn't even seem to be aware of the arctic temperature. "We need to talk," he managed to get out between breaths.

B.J. didn't even look at him as he yanked his arm free. "Let go." The request was simple, but his acidic tone made Hawkeye pause. The taller man started walking away again, and he reached out a second time. "No, we need to settle this before it gets—"

Suddenly B.J. whirled around to face him and forcefully pulled away, causing Hawkeye to lose his balance in the snow. He fell to one knee and balanced himself, glancing up at B.J. in surprise...then immediately shrank away and held up an arm in a defensive posture. "Wait!"

B.J. stared at him in bewilderment. He then realized his own arm was still in the air—and clenched in a fist. He quickly dropped it to his side and helped Hawkeye to his feet, but could tell from his friend's shaken demeanor that the damage was done. They watched each other silently for a minute, painful memories hanging thick in the air. Hawkeye unconsciously rubbed his cheekbone.

Finally, B.J. stepped back. "Just...leave me alone, Hawk. Please," he added, trying unsuccessfully to soften the hard edge in his voice.

Hawkeye could see the rage building in his eyes. "Beej..."

B.J. turned abruptly and all but ran from Pierce as though afraid of what he would say—or do—next. As he mulled the letter's contents over in his mind, he realized that was _exactly _what he feared.

Hawkeye watched his friend retreat across the compound, trying to push away the feeling that the world was about to come crashing down around them. "I'm sorry," he whispered, but the wind had already carried his words away. Burrowing deeper into his jacket, he turned back to the mess tent and prepared himself for the barrage of questions that inevitably lay ahead.


	3. Frozen

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The camp that looked like a snow-covered ghost town during the day seemed even more vacant at night. Dim lights emanating from tents throughout the compound cast an ethereal glow on the ground outside, making the scene almost beautiful—if it weren't for the scent of dirt and desperation underneath. The only comfort to be had was in the realization that, as cold as it was for the MASH unit, it was equally as cold on the front lines, thereby halting the gunfire and making casualties only a remote possibility. This provided a rare opportunity for some well-deserved, uninterrupted rest...but not everyone was able to enjoy it.

Sleep didn't come easily to Hawkeye that night, and whenever it did come, it was never for long. Every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed the scene hours earlier in the mess tent, where his friends had each chewed him out in their own way. Biting back his usual caustic responses, he had endured their wrath in humiliated silence until Colonel Potter held up a hand to quiet the others.

"All right, folks," the Colonel said finally, "I'm pretty sure he gets the picture." Crossing his arms, he held Hawkeye's gaze with a disappointed expression. "I don't know why you did it, Pierce, but I know you were doing what you thought was best...even if you didn't think it through."

Now, hours later in his tent, the same thought echoed in his mind. _Why **did** I do it?_ He opened his eyes yet again and stared up at the canvas ceiling, as though the answers were printed on it. Finding none, he turned on his side and pulled his blanket tighter. A constant chill seeped in through the edges of the door, but Hawkeye barely noticed it; the betrayal that had flashed in his friend's eyes left him feeling colder than any winter wind could have accomplished. A sharp pain shot through his body, driving itself deep into the marrow.

It had seemed like such a natural thing to do when he tucked the letter away. He knew B.J. wasn't like his friends when it came to dealing with painful issues. Where others would find someone to talk to or let off steam through physical activity, B.J. would stay quietly in the background, obsessing over it until he exploded—sometimes taking out others in the blast. Hawkeye had only been trying to protect him from the devastating news, knowing there was nothing the man could do _but_ obsess over it.

Or...was it himself he'd been trying to protect? His gaze shifted to the still, sweeping over the parts Klinger had scrounged up to replace the broken pieces. There was no sign of the previous damage, either on the still or his face. But as he thought back to the scene earlier that evening, when he cringed away from the blow he'd been certain was coming, he started to wonder if it wasn't his own emotional trauma he was trying to soothe.

He heard the door open behind him. A brisk wind swirled into the tent, bringing with it the stale scent of alcohol—an odor to which Hawkeye had become far too accustomed. Charles couldn't have been drinking in post-op (at least, not if he valued his license), which left only one alternative. Pierce closed his eyes and stifled a sigh; it was obvious now what B.J. had done when they parted ways earlier.

B.J. shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it towards his cot, missing it entirely. Hawkeye watched him stumble his way to the stove and look around blearily for something to stoke the embers. When nothing seemed available, B.J. climbed into his cot and sluggishly removed his boots. Hawkeye closed his eyes again and debated turning the other way so he wouldn't have to face his roommate.

After a few seconds, he realized B.J. still hadn't moved. He opened his eyes and saw the man still sitting on his cot, staring into the darkness. His fingers were flexing around the wooden frame of the bed, the only hint of his pent-up frustration. The unconcealed hopelessness on his face drove Hawkeye's already low spirits even further into the ground. _I did this to him, _he thought dismally, and the knife in his gut twisted. _He's never going to forgive me._ _ **Why** did I—_

His thoughts froze in mid-sentence as B.J. turned to look at him, as though realizing for the first time someone else was in the room. Hawkeye observed the man's watery, bloodshot eyes, and he wondered how much of it was from drinking...or crying. His body stiffened under the sudden scrutiny as he fought the urge to look away.

As fast as a light switch, B.J.'s expression went from pain to poorly hidden rage. He clenched his hands and deliberately turned away as he lay down on his cot, trying to wrap his blanket around himself. His late-night drinking session made the task more difficult than usual, and after a few aggravated seconds he gave up, only half-covered.

Hawkeye stared at his roommate's back in the deafening silence. Normally he would think nothing of helping—after all, who _hadn't _ever needed a hand getting to bed after a rough day? But B.J.'s angry glare had made it clear an invisible line now separated them inside their own tent, and he dared not cross that boundary for fear of the consequences.

Instead, he turned away from B.J. and gripped his blanket tighter. Tears stung the back of his eyelids, and in the darkness his mind conjured up a picture of the man's family. They were laughing in the warm summer sunshine, Erin running to embrace the father she barely knew, smiling...and healthy.

He whispered "I'm sorry" for the second time that night, but doubted B.J. would believe him. Sneaking a glance in his direction, Hawkeye could see that whatever spirits the man had drowned himself in had already claimed him for the night.

So this was his punishment. He was going to spend the rest of the war in silence—_alone_—with the closest friend he'd ever known hating him the rest of his life. And it was all his fault. The very thought added to the chill in his bones, and he shivered violently.

_God, what have I done?_


	4. Cold Sweat

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* * *

_He was home. He didn't know how it happened, but suddenly he found himself at the airport, waiting for his family. The brisk Northern California air seemed much colder than usual, but it didn't matter: he was __**home**__._

_A tug on his pant leg turned his attention downward. "Daddy?" a hesitant voice asked. He saw a petite, inquisitive face staring up at him expectantly, as though it was quite normal to walk up to grownups and ask such a question. _

_He smiled and knelt down next to her. "Yeah, kiddo, I'm here," he told her, hugging her gently. To his surprise her skin was frozen to the touch; he shivered, but gripped her tighter. _

"_Where's your mother? You didn't run off on your own, did you?" he asked, glancing up to look for his wife. He found her standing off to the side, watching them silently. She didn't seem happy to see him, and as he stood up he could see she had been crying. "Peg?" He took a step closer, but she only backed away. _

"_Why weren't you here?" she asked him, her voice trembling. "You could have done something."_

"_What?" He took another step towards her; she stepped back again. _

"_You should have been here," she insisted. "She wouldn't have died."_

_He stopped, confused. "Erin? But she's right over there." He gestured in the child's direction, only to find she had disappeared. Panicked, he ran to where he had first seen her. "Erin?" he called out, searching the area to no avail. "Erin!"_

_In the background he heard Peg say, "Didn't Hawkeye give you the letter?" He glanced up at her again, but instead of his wife he saw Hawkeye standing over an operating table, working on a patient. The airport dissolved like mist and he found himself standing once again in the O.R., standing over a wounded soldier, surrounded by the sights and sounds of war. A biting wind blew through the tent, chilling the marrow in his bones._

_Suddenly something sharp and flat cut into his hands, making them bleed. He discovered he was holding a letter addressed to him from a hospital in San Francisco. His blood flowed down the edges of the letter as he scanned the first sentence: "Dr. Hunnicut, it is with deep regret we inform you of your daughter's passing..."_

_**That's impossible.** He read it again, the strength rapidly draining from his body. "That's impossible," he repeated aloud, hearing the desperation in his voice. Everyone stopped working and watched him silently. His stunned gaze came to rest on Hawkeye, whose eyes met his with a guilty light. "She can't be dead," he informed the figure of his friend, ignoring the blood pulsing down his hands and dripping onto the floor. "I just **saw** her—she can't be dead!" _

_**Am I losing my mind?**_

_He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples; his head was spinning. The letter's words echoed in his head, and he dropped to his knees in a pool of his own blood on the OR floor. "Oh, God...Erin," he said softly, scalding tears raw against the bitter chill. "I'm so sorry. I tried so hard—they wouldn't let me come home. I wanted to see you...wanted to help. I'm a __**doctor**__, God damn it, I __should have...I couldn't even call your mother..."_

_He leaned his back against the leg of the operating table, trying to bring his tears under control. The only sound in the room was the constant drip of his blood hitting the floor. From somewhere above the table he heard the same sweet voice that spoke to him earlier. "Thank you, Daddy...goodbye."_

_He opened his eyes and saw a trail of tiny scarlet shoeprints leading from the pool of blood around him to the doors of the O.R. Glancing up, he saw Erin standing next to Peg in the doorway. The child smiled and waved cheerfully at him, then the pair turned and walked out._

_He tried to stand, but slipped on the bloody floor. "Erin, wait!" he pleaded. "Hold on!" A cold wind whipped through the area, raising goosebumps on his arms. He struggled to get up, but his body wouldn't move. A single thought kept pounding in his head, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat: __**it can't end like this.**_

"_Wait!"_

* * *

The sun, it seemed, had given up on Korea. As night quietly slipped away to the other side of the world, a pale sky slowly stretched its way across the horizon. But thick clouds made it impossible to see the normally colorful sunrise, and the camp was greeted instead by dismal gray hues to match their collective mood.

Hawkeye observed this gradual change through the dim plastic window his tent's winter covering provided. He let out a small grunt of irritation; even the weather was against their presence. Someone walked by outside, murmuring "damn" over and over, echoing his thoughts. He sat in silence, watching B.J. shift restlessly in his sleep. In fact he had done so for most of the night, since anything resembling a peaceful rest had clearly abandoned him—and the tension etched on his friend's face told him he wasn't the only one.

The events from last night weighed heavily on him. Whatever his reasons had been for hiding the letter from B.J., it was a moot point now. He wasn't sure what scared him more: the thought that his best friend's daughter was in danger, or the thought that B.J. might not _be_ his best friend any longer. Either way, he knew he was going to find out today—and the realization didn't bring any comfort.

B.J. rolled onto his side and murmured something Hawkeye couldn't make out. After a second his hand spasmed around the blanket, pulling it taut. "Wait..."

Pierce started to respond, but noticed the man was still asleep. He leaned back in bed and rubbed his arms to warm them up, making a mental note to beg, borrow or steal something flammable in the near future. Maybe Charles had another stash of stationary somewhere...

He heard a low rumble in the distance, but ignored it. As it grew steadily louder, so did his irritation. "Now I'm hearing things," he muttered. "I have to be, because there's absolutely no way that sound can possibly be what I'm hearing out there."

The sound was unmistakable now: grinding gears, steel and rubber crunching through the frozen dirt...

"There's no way," he repeated stubbornly.

"_Attention, all medical personnel. Two jeeps entering the compound. No rest for the frozen."_

Hawkeye swore and leapt to his feet. "How?! How did they manage to _find, _let alone shoot at each other?" He turned to rant more in B.J.'s direction, but found the man hadn't moved. One hand still clutched the blanket in a death grip; his eyebrows were knit together as though he were solving an unseen puzzle.

After a moment's hesitation, Hawkeye gently shook him. "Beej, we gotta go. Santa sent us our Christmas presents early." B.J. turned away from the voice, muttering to himself.

Gathering his courage, Pierce shook him again. "Come on, sunshine. If we're late we'll have to take whatever's left on the clearance rack." He tried to tug the blanket out of the man's hands, but B.J.'s grip was firm. Hawkeye grunted and stood back. "You're harder to wake up than a lot of women I've met, you know that?"

Just as he reached down a third time, B.J.'s eyes flew open and he practically jumped into a sitting position. "Wait!"

Hawkeye yelped in surprise, stepping back.

Blinking rapidly, B.J. turned in the direction of the jeep's roar outside; the redness of his eyes had only lightened a little, revealing to all who saw him what kind of night he'd had. He glanced down at the blanket entwined in his stiff fingers and slowly released it. His heart was racing, but he couldn't figure out why. Something about Erin, and bloodied shoeprints...he gazed at his hands, trying to remember, but the dream was already fading. Maybe it was better that way.

Hawkeye instantly recognized the hazy confusion that lingered on his friend's face. _I guess I look like that too when I've just had one hell of a nightmare. _"Come on, Beej," he said softly. "They're waiting for us onstage." He stretched out a hand towards B.J. just as the other man glanced up.

B.J.'s expression suddenly struck Pierce with an overwhelming sense of _de ja vu. _There was something in those eyes he hadn't seen from his friend for a very long time, something both heartwrenching and oddly touching in its own way. It caught Hawkeye off-guard as they stared at each other in silence. _I remember now...I remember the last time he looked like that. _

B.J. gazed blankly at the man standing before him. All at once the previous day's events came rushing back to him, along with the despair. In a flash, the strange look that had halted Hawkeye in his tracks was gone. He threw off his blanket and staggered to his feet, not seeing the hand Pierce offered. Without a second glance in the man's direction he roughly snatched his jacket off the floor and struggled into it, clearly fighting the start of a painful hangover every step of the way. Within seconds he was outside, a brisk blast of air whipping through the area as the door closed.

Hawkeye clenched his outstretched hand and lowered it. The cold outside was nothing compared to the bitter, icy strands that wrapped themselves around his heart. He couldn't recall the last time B.J. was ever so angry. Not even when they were so fed up with each other he'd moved out of the tent did his friend ever give him the silent treatment.

He rubbed his arm absently and shivered. Sure, he understood _why _B.J. was angry at him. And if the tables were turned, he might have even done the same. But language was the only way he survived in a place that made no sense. Communication was his single release valve—the one way he could let others know he was there, he was _alive_, and he wasn't going to sit idly as the world slipped into madness. Not many people understood that about him, but B.J. did. From the day they first met he'd always understood. For him to deny that now was...

He closed his eyes and shivered again, shaken by far more than the freezing temperature. Slipping on his jacket, he prepared to meet the icy reception...both out in the compound and inside the O.R.

There _had _to be a way to make it up to B.J.—he just wasn't sure how.


	5. Icy Reception

**NOTE: As I mentioned at the story's beginning, from here on out several of the chapters will occasionally reference events from my previous fic, "It Ends Here Tonight". You don't have to read it to understand this story, but my readers should be aware there will be incidents mentioned that can't be found in the episodes.**

**Thanks for all the reviews so far. I always welcome more.  
**

* * *

As it turned out, Hawkeye's prediction came true: the O.R. w_as_ freezing, and not just in the literal sense. Other than minimal small talk, the surgeons didn't seem to be in the mood for discussion—they were too busy making sure their frozen fingers didn't slip.

Oddly enough, the injured soldiers hadn't been wounded by gunfire; having been caught in the previous night's snowstorm, they were instead fighting the effects of frostbite and hypothermia. With the exception of an amputation, most of the injuries were relatively minor.

A faint _thump_ was heard, followed by Charles' arid voice: "The day you drop a sterile dressing simply because you cannot feel it in your grasp is a sign to the higher authorities they should have chosen another location for their charming military _kaffeeklatsch_."

Pierce immediately responded, "So _that's_ it! The Army hasn't been listening to us because their ears are frozen! I wish I'd have known that earlier—I could have just written the draft board my rejection letter instead of screaming at the windows of Truman's office." By habit he turned to B.J., who normally always had something to add to the conversation.

Instead he saw the man working almost automatically on the soldier before him, glazed eyes peering at something far away. Even with the mask covering his face it was evident his normally playful features seemed to be set in stone, holding back every emotion like a dam. His eyes held a vaguely haunted look, something Hawkeye was more used to seeing in the mirror than on his best friend.

B.J. felt a familiar pair of eyes watching him and slowly glanced up. Flickers of his nightmare were clinging stubbornly to the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach but close enough to make him leery of the room he was standing in. Noticing the concern in Pierce's eyes, he was amazed by the sudden role reversal—usually _he _was the one worrying about his friend. _Do I really look that bad? _

A sharp twinge in his shoulder brought back memories of an event several months ago, where a nightmare had driven Hawkeye to the breaking point...and nearly killed _him_. For a brief moment he had caught a terrifyingly clear glimpse of the private demons his friend battled, and since then he was able to tell more easily when those demons were taking their toll.

And sure, he would get nightmares too—but normally they didn't affect his waking life. Why was that different now?

An image of Erin flashed through his mind, and his eyes narrowed as he turned bitterly back to his patient. Wasn't it obvious? It was different now because his daughter was thousands of miles away, possibly dying, and he was stuck in Korea patching up someone _else's _kid when he should be home with his own. Life was always unfair, but sometimes it could be inherently cruel...

Lost in his musings, he didn't realize Hawkeye was still watching him.

Pierce cringed when B.J. abruptly turned away. _He hates me that much?_ He turned his attention back to the frostbitten soldier before him, trying to focus on his work.

The silence in the room was starting to grate on his nerves, and the guilt-ridden voice of his conscience kept him from concentrating. _Come on, Beej, _he pleaded silently as he deftly wrapped a warm, damp bandage around a soldier's hand. _I know you're upset. So yell at me, __**show **__me you're upset...but for God's sake, don't ignore me..._

Unusually subdued, he finished his work and headed out of the room, taking pains to avoid B.J. along the way. Maybe going back to his tent would help him figure out a way to make it up to his friend, even if it took the entire day. The man deserved at least that much...

From his corner of the room, Father Mulcahy watched the surgeon leave. He'd been helping shuttle sterile materials between the tables and caught the earlier look between B.J. and Hawkeye. His discerning eye had seen the distress in Pierce's expression, and now he observed the man practically slinking along the side of the room to avoid entering B.J.'s field of vision. He turned to discover Colonel Potter watching Hawkeye's retreat as well. They locked eyes, each silently verifying what the other had witnessed, before returning to their duties.

Potter shook his head. "Klinger better get that phone line up and running again soon," he muttered. Otherwise, he had the feeling he would be seeing far stranger behavior yet.

* * *

Rather than going straight home, Hawkeye figured he should try and choke down—in every sense of the word—something from the mess tent. He wasn't hungry, but last night's events had prevented him from eating anything and he'd started to feel lightheaded as he worked in the O.R. After a quick bite (accompanied by an equally swift threat of rebellion from his stomach) he debated whether it was possible to wear a coat while taking a shower. Deciding against it, he traipsed across the compound into his tent.

To his surprise, a bundle of what appeared to be firewood met him next to the stove. Upon closer inspection he realized it was actually two wooden chairs that had been taken apart and stacked up. A note was attached to the bundle, and when Pierce opened it he immediately recognized Klinger's handwriting:

"_It's all completely legit, but if someone comes sniffing around about a missing poker table set, I don't know anything about it."_

Hawkeye smiled; Klinger's resourcefulness was only outmatched by his kindness. Colonel Potter had probably received the splintered poker table—without the candid explanation, of course.

Picking up a chair leg, he opened the stove lid and tossed it in. Although the urge to light it was strong, he reminded himself the unexpected present would most likely be gone within a day anyway, so he was better off waiting for B.J. to finish his scheduled shift. Not to mention Charles might stick his blue-blooded nose into the issue—then again, Charles could always write Mumsey and Daddy and ask them to chop down a rainforest somewhere.

Hawkeye glanced at the stove, unable to hold back a mirthless smirk. On second thought, it would be difficult for Charles to write _anyone_ considering his stationary was now a pile of ash.

* * *

An hour after taking care of the last frostbitten soldier, B.J. sat at the desk in post-op trying to concentrate on signing reports. The lingering uneasiness from his forgotten nightmare had diminished, replaced by a constant fear grounded more firmly in reality.

_Is she doing all right? _He blindly signed his name on yet another status report, seeing only the image of a sick, frightened child thousands of miles away. _I hope they're coping without me. _Thoughts wandered aimlessly in his mind, occasionally crashing into each other like overlapping waves.

He signed another report. _Does she wish I was there? _His eyes scanned the details of the next report without seeing the words, and he pressed his pen to the paper.

_Does she even remember me?_

His hand paused in mid-signature, then started to shake. He shoved the report aside and ran his fingers through his hair, interlacing them behind his head. He desperately tried to force the thought out of his mind, but it held fast to his heart. She was so young when he left...would she even know who he was when he came home?

And if he _didn't_ come home...would she ever remember she had a father?

The scar on his chest started to itch. By now he'd experienced enough of the war to realize death was a very real possibility, even in a non-combat unit. If, for some reason, he ended up dying, would Peg make sure their daughter remembered him? Or...

Would she simply remarry and forget him as well?

He grasped the edge of the desk and exhaled loudly, unaware he'd been holding his breath. _Get a grip, _he scolded himself. The only thing that mattered right now was finding a way to contact Peg and get an update on Erin's condition. Everything else came after that.

Leaning back in his chair, he gently rubbed the bridge of his nose. His throbbing blood vessels reminded him he wasn't entirely free of the morning's hangover, and he cursed himself for falling prey to last night's desperation. Drinking was far too easy a method to drown his rage, and it was getting easier each time. That alone scared him, much more than he was willing to admit.

He'd changed since the day he arrived in Korea—he was already well aware of that.

The question was, how much?


	6. Ashes To Ashes

**Thank you for the reviews; as always, more are welcome.**

* * *

Hawkeye stood from his cot and paced the length of the tent for the sixty-first time since he arrived; he'd actually counted. No matter how much he tried to think of a way to help B.J., the frigid air made thinking (not to mention breathing) difficult.

He glanced at the stove again, guilt warring with the numbness in his fingers. There wouldn't be any harm if he _started _burning the wood, right? He'd make sure to leave most of it for when his roommate finished his shift. What good would it do any of them if B.J. came back to find a frozen corpse sitting next to a pile of perfectly flammable material?

Reaching into the stove, he carefully lit the chair leg and watched gleefully as the outer edges began to glow. _Thank you, Klinger—you and your unquestionably questionable sources. _

* * *

Post-op was blissfully quiet, leaving B.J. to his thoughts. Images of his daughter danced behind his closed eyelids—scenes of the past, hopes for the future. For a brief moment, he smiled.

The word "encephalitis" crept into his mind, warping the images towards a much darker outcome. He grit his teeth. _Why the hell am I here, anyway? I'm not even making a difference. I never __**wanted**__ to be here..._

"B.J.?"

He jumped at the sound, banging painfully into the desk. Glancing up, he found Father Mulcahy watching him with an apologetic expression. "Father—you surprised me," he said, rubbing his knee.

"Yes...I can see that," Mulcahy responded sympathetically. "Terribly sorry. I just thought I might borrow a moment of your time."

"I don't think the patients will complain. If there's something you need, just name it."

"Well, actually, that's precisely the offer I wanted to extend to you." Mulcahy carefully perched on an unoccupied cot nearby. "If you'll pardon the intrusion, I happened to notice a...certain exchange between you and Hawkeye earlier."

At B.J.'s blank stare, he explained the interaction he'd witnessed in the O.R. "He seemed awfully dejected after that when he left, so I thought I would approach the rather sensitive situation as a chaplain...and a friend," he finished, gauging the man's reaction.

B.J. frowned. He thought back to the morning's O.R. session, trying hard to remember the incident Mulcahy was referring to, but nothing came to mind. Then again, he _had_ been unusually out of sorts for most of the day...

"We all know what a terrible strain you're under right now," Mulcahy continued. "And I certainly don't blame you for being upset because he hid that letter, but his intentions were good—even if his judgment wasn't."

A memory surfaced through the haze in B.J.'s mind, and he recalled the worry in Hawkeye's gaze as they worked earlier that day. The haunting image of his daughter had shadowed his every step, just as it was doing now. _That's _what made him turn away, not what Pierce had done.

He wouldn't deny he was angry—well, _furious_—at his friend's deception, and last night he ran from the man to avoid repeating his earlier violent mistake. But it was the Army, no one else, that was keeping him from his family. Besides, it wasn't Hawk's fault Erin was sick, and he certainly wasn't responsible for the phone lines being down...

He thought back to the concern in Pierce's eyes. _God...I hurt him, and never even saw it. How the hell could I have missed that? _

"If you can't find it in your heart to forgive him, at least try to make peace with him," Mulcahy's voice broke through his thoughts. "His well-being in this camp is important—just as yours is."

B.J. leaned forward in his chair, still trying to grasp the facts. Had his own rage at the world blinded him to the pain of those around him? "Father, I didn't even know—he _really_...? No...he had nothing to do with it."

Mulcahy raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Well...that's certainly a relief, although I think he might like to hear that from you rather than me." He folded his arms in thought, choosing his words delicately. "B.J., I'm not sure if you realize it, but it's obvious to the rest of us how Hawkeye places tremendous importance on your opinion of him. I'm not sure even Trapper had that sort of influence, and the two of them were virtually inseparable."

Another memory surfaced as the priest spoke, bringing B.J. back several months to when he'd nearly died. He had awakened in post-op just as Hawkeye was baring his soul, unaware B.J. could hear him. Neither of them mentioned the quiet confession after that day, but ever since then B.J. felt he had a unique insight into his friend's seemingly manic tendencies.

Pierce's words slowly came drifting back to him: _"__Looking back on it, I think you realized how much I was hurting. It's hard to hide your bad days from a roommate, y'know? I never got the chance to tell you how much your efforts to make things easier meant to me. There were times when just you listening to me ramble was enough to keep me from doing things I'd regret."_

B.J. swallowed hard; suddenly he felt very sick.

Mulcahy observed the surgeon's reaction. "It's an honor to be truly valued by a friend, but with that honor comes a great responsibility. No one can tell you how to feel, _especially_ with an ailing child at home, but you may want to keep that in mind when you see him."

B.J. sat silently for a second before glancing up. "I...didn't realize he thought I blamed him for everything," he admitted, "although now that I think about it, I probably gave him enough cause to believe that. Don't get me wrong, he should never have kept that letter from me...but this isn't his fault."

The chaplain smiled, seeing that his words had reached the man, and stood up. "Well, at least you realize it now. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

B.J. returned the man's gentle smile with a weary one of his own. "I can take a hint. I'll talk to him when I get off duty. He's due in shortly anyway."

"That's the spirit." Mulcahy put on his hat and wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised I would hold confession for anyone brave enough to trek through the compound to my tent—although frankly I think it's simply too cold for any sinning of the sort I usually hear about."

A small chuckle escaped B.J.'s lips. "Take care, Father..." Then, after a second, "...and thanks."

"My pleasure," Mulcahy responded. "It's nice to know that I, too, can be useful at times." Giving a quick glance around post-op, he turned up the collar on his jacket and headed outside.

B.J. rubbed his temples and stole a glance at his watch. _You're really something, Hawk, _he thought tiredly. _My daughter's the one in trouble and yet, somehow, I end up feeling guilty about you. _He reluctantly returned to the stack of paperwork on the desk, hoping his friend was at least getting some rest before it was time for the shift change. He'd explain everything then.

* * *

A freezing Hawkeye sat on his cot, his eyes shifting from the rapidly dwindling chair leg blazing away in the stove to the pile of wood next to it. Each time he did, a pang of guilt shot through him and he tried to focus his attention elsewhere—no matter what, he was determined not to burn anything else until his roommate had a chance to enjoy Klnger's generosity too.

After a while, he noticed that his previously rock-solid determination was starting to dissolve with the smoldering embers of the depleted chair leg. "Damn human frailty," he muttered. "Want to win a war? You don't need guns—just go drop a few feet of snow on the enemy. They'll surrender to anyone with blankets and hot water bottles."

He waited another half hour, until he could swear he felt the chill creeping its way through his veins and into his brain. Rubbing his hands together in an ineffective attempt to warm them, he glanced at the clock next to his bed. An idea struck him: B.J. was scheduled to finish his shift shortly. Maybe he would appreciate walking into a tent that was already warm, rather than the meatlocker it currently was.

"Now, if we could move the Swamp into post-op, then we both could enjoy feeling our fingers again," he lamented aloud as he stood up and tossed another chair leg into the stove, along with several other splintered wooden pieces. "Then again, if we did that, it would be impossible to keep the patients from turning the still into a round-the-clock Happy Hour."

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the burst of heat that immediately began radiating from the newly stoked fire. It was nice to thaw out a little before heading off to his shift; besides, there was still the second chair he hadn't even touched yet. _If only every problem could be solved with a warm stove..._

Lying down on his cot, he stared up at the dreary winter-weight canvas draped above him and tried to rein in his frustration. "Useless" was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to, yet ever since he'd landed in Korea it was a depressingly intimate companion. No matter which way he looked at it, the reality was that nothing he could do would actually help B.J. It wouldn't cure his daughter—hell, it wouldn't even let him _see_ her. "Isn't that that the epitome of uselessness?" he asked the ceiling, then squeezed his eyes shut and stifled a sigh.

He coughed and turned on his side. His thoughts drifted to his upcoming shift in post-op, when he realized Klinger's office was right next to it. Maybe he could lend a hand with getting the phone lines back in order; he probably wouldn't be able to do much, but at least it would let him feel like he was doing _something_ to help his friend.

_Who comes up with the lists of draftees, anyway? _he thought darkly. _Newly married men with young children should be automatically exempt. It's not fair to them, their families, **or** the enemy—who wants to fight someone whose heart isn't in it? _

He coughed again and blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging. "Whoever it is out there better move unless they want their cigarettes, lighter, and underwear set on fire," he called out irritably. "Not necessarily in that order!" Crossing his arms, he squinted up at the ceiling in annoyance. His watery eyes were playing tricks on him, because the normally green canvas seemed a bit hazy. _Great, so I really am losing my mind. Charles will love being the first to say "I told you so". _

Closing his eyes again, Hawkeye lost himself in contemplation. They could always train a carrier pigeon...and pray it didn't freeze to death...

After a while another coughing fit interrupted him, much longer this time, and he found it difficult to catch his breath. His eyes burned as he wiped the tears away. _Damn it! I'm gonna personally drive whoever it is out there to the front and paint a bullseye on his matchbook. _

He tried to stand up, but his body failed to respond; he stumbled out of his cot onto the floor, still coughing spasmodically. Part of him realized something was horribly wrong, but he couldn't think clearly enough to determine what. He could feel his throat starting to close, and gazed through blurry eyes at the door that now seemed to be miles away.

That's when he realized the smoke wasn't coming from any external source, but from the stove inside the tent—flowing freely through the lid's grate instead of the evidently clogged vent.

Panic started to set in. He reached out to drag himself to the door, but discovered his body was too heavy to move. His surroundings grew murky as darkness hovered at the edges of his vision. The haze he had mistaken for a trick of the mind earlier now hung thickly inside the tent, stripping the air from his lungs.

The word "asphyxia" danced tauntingly through his head before disappearing. He realized with a touch of irony this wouldn't even be a problem if it wasn't for the tent's supposedly "protective" winter covering...

Sounds faded around him, and a comfortable numbness spread through his limbs. In the back of his mind a voice screamed at him to get outside, but that soon faded as well. His eyes flicked upwards to the stove, watching the fire burn with a warm, cheery glow. _The phoenix among the ashes, _he thought with a small smile. The sight brought him a spark of hope, even as the encroaching darkness claimed him; if he could find something so beautiful in the middle of Hell, maybe he could help B.J. after all...

Just as soon as he woke up.

* * *

B.J. glanced at his watch with a frown. It wasn't like Hawkeye to be late, not even by a few minutes. He knew the man took his patients very seriously—it was about the only thing he _did _take seriously.

_Unless he's avoiding me. _The thought made him flinch; he would definitely have to clear the air with Hawkeye when he showed up. It was crazy to let him go on thinking the blame was placed squarely on his shoulders. B.J. wasn't really sure _who _to be angry at, but he knew in the end that his friend had simply been the reluctant (and accidental) messenger.

Another minute went by, and B.J. checked his watch again. _Did he forget? _No, that was impossible—Hawkeye never simply forgot things like his shift. Maybe he'd overslept? _No, he's never done that either..._

He chuckled, surprised at himself. Hawkeye was a big boy and could take care of himself. So what if he was a little late? That just meant he would owe B.J. a drink at the Officer's Club later.

At the same time, something inside was prodding him to go look for Hawkeye himself. Not a feeling, exactly...it was something more subtle that defied definition.

It had started shortly after his brush with death, when he discovered he was better able to detect the changes in Hawkeye's mercurial moods—the only way he could describe it was similar to the way animals could detect a coming storm. It was much easier for him to sense the shadows that would sometimes cross his friend's face, and he would often use that ability to gently draw out a confession of what was wrong. He didn't know whether Hawkeye was aware of this interesting new talent or not, but the man usually seemed grateful that someone noticed and was glad to share his otherwise hidden problems on more than one occasion.

This newfound "sixth sense" had never been wrong so far, which was why the warning bells going off in his head started to concern him. Finally, he told the nurse on duty to keep an eye on post-op and buttoned up his jacket as he headed outside.

The warning bells grew louder as he approached the nearby tent, despite the deceptively peaceful scene. He inhaled sharply; the scent of ashes lingered in the air.

He knocked on the door. "Hawk?" he asked. "It's after four, and I'm about to turn into a pumpkin. You ready?" There was no answer. He peered through the plastic window, and knew immediately something was wrong when he couldn't see anything. Was that smoke?

The vague dread in his gut instantly solidified into pure, unmitigated fear. _He can't be in here. Please, don't let him be in here... _Trembling fingers shot out to grasp the handle, and he threw back the door.

"Oh, God! _Hawk!_"


	7. A Matter of Time

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* * *

_This can't be happening._

The acrid smoke assaulted B.J.'s eyes and throat as he squinted through the haze. He could barely make out Hawkeye's form lying on the floor. Trying to keep the only means of ventilation open, he dropped to his knees and grabbed Pierce's jacket. His heart threatened to burst through his chest as he fought back the fear and poisonous fumes.

His cry of alarm drew the attention of nearby personnel, including Colonel Potter who had been resting in his quarters. Peering outside he caught a glimpse of Hunnicut kneeling in the doorway to the Swamp, smoke billowing from the tent. "What in Sam Hill...?"

A small crowd started to gather as B.J. grasped Pierce firmly around the shoulders and pulled his friend's body outside. The late afternoon sun revealed more about his condition, and what B.J. saw froze his blood.

Hawkeye's face was almost as white as the snow covering the ground, except for the disturbing shade of blue coloring his lips. Faint traces of soot lined his nose and mouth, indicating he'd already inhaled a great deal of the toxin. Leaning in, B.J. checked his respiratory signs; there were none. He swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to keep his rising hysteria at bay and checked for a pulse, but it too was absent.

His hands reached down with a confidence he didn't possess and tried to coax Hawkeye's heart into starting again. _Acute central cyanosis...possible hypemic hypoxia..._the professional part of his mind took control, mainly because the rest of him was stunned beyond the capability of rational thought. He felt a familiar presence draw near, and heard Colonel Potter's urgent voice call out for a bag valve mask. Within seconds a corpsman appeared next to B.J., mask in hand, and the two men soon had a steady resuscitation rhythm between them.

B.J.'s medical mind continued its practiced monologue, reminding him of facts he'd rather not consider. _Brain damage after four minutes. Death after seven..._but how long had it been since Hawkeye stopped breathing? Without knowing that, there was no way to tell if it was already—

_Come **on**, damn it, **wake up**!_

Potter knelt down next to him and asked a question, but B.J. didn't hear it over the rush of adrenaline. The Colonel gently lifted Pierce's eyelid, taking note of the pupil dilation before barking out another command. A gurney materialized, seemingly out of nowhere, but B.J. refused to stop—at least a minute had already passed since he discovered Hawkeye, and he wasn't willing to let another second go by without trying to get the man's heart going again. _Has it been four minutes already?_

_Or eight?_

He channeled every ounce of willpower into each thrust, silently commanding his friend to respond. After a lifetime (or maybe two) he felt something convulse beneath the palm of his hand, almost like an aborted attempt to cough. He paused and instructed the corpsman to keep bagging, watching intently for any improvement.

Agonizing seconds passed with no change. Then Hawkeye's body spasmed violently, followed by a sharp gasp. The corpsman lifted the mask and B.J. instinctively turned him on his side, trying to clear the airway. At the same time, he checked for a pulse; it was barely detectable, but it was _there_.

Pierce's hand reflexively clawed at his neck as he struggled to breathe, and it dawned on B.J. the icy air was only compounding the problem. Colonel Potter realized it too, and ordered Hawkeye to be placed on the stretcher. The stunned crowd sprang into action, three men running to lift the surgeon from the ground while several more went to tackle the problem of the smoke-filled tent.

B.J. watched as his friend was laid on the gurney, and his relief rapidly gave way to concern: although semi-conscious, Pierce wasn't responding to his surroundings at all. His partially opened eyes stared up at the sky, seemingly unaware of the chaos around him. "Hawk? Can you hear me?"

No reaction.

B.J.'s earlier fear returned with a vengeance. _Brain damage after four minutes, _his medical training reminded him mercilessly. He grit his teeth. "Hawk!" he repeated, hearing the tension in his own voice. A comforting hand grasped his shoulder, and he turned to see Colonel Potter watching him with an understanding expression.

"Easy, son," Potter said calmly. "It could be due to any number of things right now." Turning to the men near the stretcher, he ordered, "Get him out of this Alaskan air conditioning. Put him on a hundred percent oxygen and get a reading of his carboxyhemoglobin level. And make sure to bring enough oxygen tanks to last him several hours—this is going to be a marathon, folks, not a hundred-yard dash."

He glanced back at B.J., who was trying to fend off a shiver as he watched the stretcher being moved into the surgical tent. "You'd better be careful yourself, Hunnicut," he commented gently. "You look like you're on the fast track into shock."

"Uh-huh," B.J. responded distantly, his eyes never straying from the gurney as another tremor ran through him.

Potter sighed. "Seeing how your tent isn't habitable at the moment, I'd usually suggest using the V.I.P. tent to hit the sack for a while...but maybe it'd be better for you to keep an eye on him right now. I don't—"

"Sure, Colonel," B.J. agreed, and took off before Potter could finish.

"After all," the Colonel added to himself, noting B.J.'s waxy complexion as the surgeon retreated, "this way I can keep an eye on _both_ of you." He wrapped his jacket tighter and followed behind the taller man, keeping to himself the fact that Hawkeye's almost vacant expression had worried him, too.

_Pierce, what've you gotten yourself into this time?_


	8. Most Unlikely Sources

**NOTE: This chapter references events in my previous fanfic, "It Ends Here Tonight".  
**

**Thank you all for the reviews so far. I always welcome more.**

* * *

For the next fourteen hours no one dared to speak in post-op. Anyone walking down the main aisle did their best to ignore the fact the camp's normally animated chief surgeon was lying in one of the cots, strangely still. Charles had taken over what would have been Pierce's shift, and now sat at the desk completing the paperwork B.J. had been working on earlier.

He occasionally glanced up, keeping a close eye on Pierce—unwilling to admit to anyone how unsettled the scene made him. The Colonel had also asked him to watch a clearly rattled Hunnicut, who had been sitting silently next to Hawkeye since the man was brought in.

B.J. sat on the cot next to his friend, staring across the room. A nurse had brought him dinner late last night, which remained uneaten next to him. Although he'd tried, sleep proved impossible; through the night his thoughts had vacillated between his daughter's illness and the frightening image of Hawkeye's blank, oblivious gaze as he was placed on the stretcher.

He was grateful for the slight improvements, of course: the blue tinge was finally gone from Hawkeye's lips, and the oxygen was providing a steady airflow to help replace the carbon in his blood. If B.J. didn't know better, it would have seemed like his roommate was merely asleep.

But the fact remained Hawkeye still hadn't woken up—he hadn't even moved. There was no way to tell how badly the smoke had affected him…or if he would be the same man he was before.

And he was so _quiet_…

B.J. rubbed his eyes wearily and sighed. He could feel the pressure from the past few days building up, trapped inside his body with no way to escape. It threatened to crash down at any second, tearing him apart in its wake.

And why shouldn't it? His world was already eroding beneath him, and for the first time in his life he felt truly powerless to stop it.

A single question repeated itself mockingly in his mind as he watched Hawkeye's pallid face: _Was I too late?_

"I see you opted not to sample the latest delicacies from the mess tent," came a quiet voice. He slowly looked up to see Charles watching him with a rather awkward smile. "A wise decision."

"Yeah," B.J. replied flatly, turning his attention back to Pierce.

Charles observed the pair silently for a moment, taking in Hunnicut's worn features—"thoroughly exhausted" didn't quite describe it. _Colonel Potter is right to be concerned._

"Yes...well." He cleared his throat and slipped his hands into his pockets. Glancing away briefly, he tried to think of something to say. It was strange feeling for him; as a man who prided himself on always having a keen wit with a ready vocabulary to match, he wasn't used to being at a loss for words.

To his shock, B.J. actually spoke first. "I'm a failure, you know," the man commented offhandedly, never taking his eyes from Hawkeye.

Winchester's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. Out of all the things he'd ever expected the Captain to say, that had never even made the list. "Pardon?"

"You don't have to pretend you don't know, Charles," B.J. replied in a strangely bitter tone. "In fact I think you were the first to realize it. It just took me a little longer to find out."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

B.J. suddenly turned to face him, the fury in his eyes rooting the Major to the floor. "Ever since the day I got here I've been a failure. Ineffective. Unproductive. You're the Harvard graduate—I'm sure you could come up with a few more." Glancing down at Pierce, he continued, "Hawk's the one who made living here bearable. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay him for that...and now I'm not even sure I _can_."

His jaw muscles tensed and he faced Winchester again, praying he could get through to the man. "Don't you get it?" he asked, his voice rising. "Think about it. I'm too far away from my family to help them when they need me. My best friend ends up almost getting smothered less than _fifty goddamn yards_ from me and I was too late to do anything! Too far or too late, what difference does it make? I'm no help either way! What business—"

He stopped and inhaled sharply, feeling his blood pumping all the way up through the nerves in his teeth. When he spoke again, his voice was more controlled, but the bitter tone resurfaced. "What business do I have calling myself a doctor when I can't save anyone? Isn't that what being useless means?"

Although he used the word "useless", the unspoken, stronger word behind it was all too clear to both of them: _worthless_.

Charles gaped at B.J., stunned. No, "stunned" wasn't even the right word—if he had woken up one day to discover he was adopted and was actually the son of Irish immigrants who sold apples in the street, he would have been less surprised than he was now. Did B.J. really think that?

And yet, here the younger surgeon was, painfully serious and waiting for a response. Charles could hear the desperation behind his angry outburst, and saw the tears of exhaustion and self-loathing threatening to be unleashed.

They'd never been close. In many ways they couldn't even be considered "friends". In fact, Charles had made a point of keeping a dignified distance from his dismal surroundings and everyone connected to them. When B.J. had issues, it was always Hawkeye who stepped in to give his friend a reality check, not Charles. It had been that way from the moment Winchester arrived in camp, and it suited him just fine.

Now the man's closest friend and confidant was lying in a hospital bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, unresponsive and possibly injured in ways they weren't even aware of yet. And B.J. was looking at him—looking _to_ him—hoping the Major could fill the void and proffer words of wisdom to get him through this dark period.

Something long-forgotten inside him stirred, and his normally haughty expression softened.

Taking a deep breath, Charles shoved his hands further into his pockets and sat delicately on the edge of Hawkeye's bed. "Hunnicut..." he began, choosing his words with care. He made sure he had B.J.'s full attention before continuing. "Let me tell you something of which you may not be aware. Several months ago, when you were caught in that explosion, Pierce assumed full responsibility for your care. He insisted on being your surgeon, going against both my advice and the Colonel's. He absolutely refused to give up on you, even when you were—forgive my candor—dead." He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing.

"Any other man would have simply given up and let you pass on, but he held a tenacious resolve I've witnessed in very few other people during my time." He held B.J.'s gaze, trying to determine how much of his speech was actually getting through to the man. "Right now he needs someone with that same tenacity to help him overcome this latest circumstance, and if I may be so audacious as to speak for him, I can say with relative certainty he would prefer that 'someone' to be you."

As the Major spoke, B.J.'s eyes shifted to Pierce's face. He remembered the day Charles was referring to—how could he forget? He really _had_ almost died, but a brief glimpse into the tortured mind of his friend had quite literally scared him back to life. On that day, Hawkeye gave everything he had left to save B.J. How could he do any less now?

Winchester carefully observed B.J.'s reaction to his words. "You mustn't give into doubt, especially when Pierce is in dire need of your support," he continued quietly. "He may be your predecessor in terms of age, and of tenure in this...this Asian _flea circus_...but he looks up to you in countless ways. By giving up, you are, in effect...abandoning him."

This drew a sharp glance from the Captain, who looked like someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water on him—which was exactly what Charles had intended.

He leaned in towards B.J. for emphasis. "I have seen friendships formed, Hunnicut, but none quite as strong as the bond you two seem to possess. You should consider yourselves to be quite fortunate—most people will never have such a companion in their life. When he wakes up..."

_If he wakes up..._

"...He's going to require your support, regardless of his condition. And if you blame yourself now, you will _never_ be able to get past that pain to help him in his time of need. Do you understand?"

B.J. thought for a moment, and the Major could see the tension in his face had eased a bit. "Yeah...yeah, I think so." His surprise was evident, both at himself and his unlikely ally. For a stubborn, arrogant aristocrat, Charles could be astonishingly profound at times.

"Good," Winchester said crisply, standing up. All at once, his practiced air of superiority returned. "Then if you'll excuse me, I have some rather important paperwork to attend to."

He turned on his heel, but B.J.'s quiet voice stopped him. "Charles—" He glanced back at the man, whose gaze was fixed on Hawkeye's bed. Maybe it was just the lighting, but B.J.'s coloring even seemed a little better.

"Thanks," the man finished simply, not looking up.

Charles smiled briefly—not the half-smirk he usually graced his co-workers with, but a sincere gesture—and headed back to his desk.


	9. Echoes

**NOTE: This chapter references events from my previous fanfic, "It Ends Here Tonight".**

**Thank you all for the reviews so far. More are always welcome.**

* * *

Over the next few hours B.J. mulled over his conversation with Charles several times. This was made more difficult by the fact he hadn't slept in over a day, and it was hard to hear his own thoughts over the faint ring of fatigue in his head. Glancing down at Pierce for the hundredth time, he was struck by the sudden role reversal; it wasn't long ago he knew Hawkeye had been sitting next to _his _bedside, probably having the same issue.

"I guess Charles had a few points," B.J. murmured softly to his friend. "Which is pretty surprising—especially coming from him." He rubbed the back of his neck and yawned, absently noting it was now daylight outside. "He reminded me of a few things you said a while back, too. I know we've never discussed it since then—there was no reason to. But..."

He paused, chewing on his lower lip. _If I don't say it now, I may never get the chance again._ "A while ago you asked why I came back when I died, but I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to, I just...didn't know how to explain it. I still don't, really."

Leaning back, he studied his friend carefully. "Let's just say I—saw things—from your perspective, and realized I couldn't leave. Couldn't let you think I was...abandoning you." He cringed at the word, knowing from recent experience just how deeply Hawkeye's fear of abandonment ran.

Reluctance and ego tried to close his mouth against the stream of secrets flowing from his brain, but exhaustion and guilt refused to stem to the tide. "Before you told me, I never realized how much I'd helped you. I wonder if—you know how much I've relied on _you_ to help me get out of this place in one piece. And more than just literally," he added, his hand brushing the scar on his chest.

"When I first got here, I didn't know what to expect," he admitted, a rueful smile crossing his face. "I was always the 'good kid' in class—never bent the rules, always followed orders. Even the hard-to-swallow ones like my draft notice. It never occurred to me that you could question the rules that didn't make sense—much less fight back."

The silence in post-op echoed endlessly in his head, and he purposely kept his voice quiet so he wouldn't be heard by the other patients. "On the trip back from Kimpo, between the guerillas and the mortar shells, I decided I was in way over my head—and I was right. But you showed me it was possible to overcome the madness. If you weren't there to help me realize orders are only as good and righteous as the people making them, I think I would have broken a long time ago."

He observed the flecks of gray scattered through the man's hair and the deep-set lines in his face. Even unconscious, it still seemed like he was fighting an unseen battle—and, knowing Hawkeye, that probably wasn't far from the truth. B.J. couldn't get past how much older his friend looked since the first time they'd met...then realized those same haggard features were most likely reflected in his own face.

_God, Hawk, how did we end up like this?_

After a long pause, he continued, "I've changed a lot since arriving here...not all of it for the better. I just—I feel like my life has been torn to pieces. Probably because it has. I'm like a six-foot-four jigsaw puzzle, just the sum of all my parts...except I'm missing that single piece that brings the whole picture together. That piece is back in Mill Valley, and until I go back there I'll _never_ be a whole person again, just random pieces scattered across God's green earth. I can't even—"

He stopped, suddenly embarrassed of his tirade—and a bit shocked at the subdued rage in his voice. Angry tears pricked his eyelids, but he willed them back and tried to calm down.

When he spoke again, he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. "I...don't even know where I belong anymore, Hawk. My family's moving on without me. Erin may be _dying_ and they won't even let me see her. But—even if I _did_ go see her, she probably won't remember me. At this point I don't even know if Peg would remember..." There was no holding back the tears this time; all he could do was brush them away as they fell.

He knew he was rambling. He didn't care. And more importantly, he knew Hawkeye was the only one in the world who would understand that.

"When I was lying here months ago, you once said you...thought of me like a brother." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Then yesterday, Father Mulcahy came to—ah, enlighten me on a few things, and it was brought to my attention you thought I..." He paused for a long moment to still the quivering in his voice, and sighed. _What's wrong with me? Just say it already..._

"Look, Hawk, maybe I was angry at you, but none of this was your fault. You really shouldn't get in the habit of reading other peoples' mail, but I won't shoot the messenger. Besides, I'm...well, this is my somewhat inept way of trying to say I feel the same way, okay? I've never had anyone witness my ugly side before and choose to like me anyway. How could anyone other than a brother do that?" He fell silent, remembering with chagrin the time he'd unleashed that darker side on his roommate.

"Charles said by blaming myself I was aband—" His voice caught in his throat, and he inhaled deeply before continuing, "—abandoning you. Still...I can't help thinking none of this would have happened if I'd found you in time. I guess that makes me a horrible brother...which would pair well with me being a horrible father."

The ringing in his head grew louder. He could feel pressure building up as the guilt slowly crushed him from the outside in. "I'm being pulled in two directions, Hawk," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. He bit his lip until it began to bleed. "I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to just board the next plane to San Francisco and damn the consequences...but that's a part of my life I can't control."

He leaned in closer and gently laid his hand across Pierce's forehead. It was clammy to the touch, but he didn't recoil. "At least I can promise _you_ I'll be here. I won't abandon you...I just thought you should know that. You _deserve_ to know that." He closed his eyes, willing his friend to hear him.

_Please, just wake up..._

* * *

Pain.

That was the first thing he became aware of. It filled his lungs, squeezing every time he inhaled. Every square inch of his body ached, from his scalp to the joints in his toes. Was it a hangover? No...if it was a hangover, the sound of his own thoughts would be killing him.

_Are hair follicles supposed to hurt?_

He suddenly realized he was surrounded by darkness. It was a strange sensation—he felt practically weightless, drifting endlessly in limbo. It would have felt almost liberating if it wasn't for the rhythmic stab of pain with each breath.

Along with the darkness, he realized something even more troubling: he was alone. He struggled to move, to get a bearing of his surroundings, but he might as well have been fighting quicksand.

It was _freezing_...he wanted to shiver, but discovered he couldn't do that either. Panic started to creep its way along his body. He couldn't have been left alone in complete darkness...why would everyone do that to him?

_Hello? Is anyone out there?_

After a long silence he heard something in the distance, far above him; it sounded like a voice. In between aching breaths he paused to listen, straining to make out the words, but it quickly faded. Instead he floated in the darkness, trying to figure out what to do. Where was everyone—and why couldn't he move?

If he could only remember what happened to land him in this funhouse, maybe he could determine the next course of action. He dredged up his freshest memories from the pitch black abyss surrounding him, but came up blank—he had left the mess tent, entered his quarters, and...then what?

_This pain would be a lot easier to take if I didn't actually need to breathe._

The voice was back. Determined not to lose it this time, he focused all his attention on it. "...back from Kimpo, between the guerillas and the mortar shells, I decided I was in way over..."

_B.J.?_

The voice started to fade again, but he concentrated on it until he could hear it clearly: "—and righteous as the people making them, I think I would have broken a long time ago."

_Beej, what's going on? Where are you?_

The disorienting darkness made it hard to listen to his friend's words. He felt like he was about to fall off the edge of an unseen cliff, but steeled himself against the sensation and poured every ounce of his will into holding onto that voice.

"—life has been torn to pieces. Probably because it has. I'm like a six-foot-four jigsaw puzzle, just the sum of all my parts...except I'm missing that single piece..."

He listened carefully to every word, concentrating on his only link to the world beyond this madness. The quiet despair in B.J.'s voice cut through him, making him wish he could at least _see_ the man to offer some comfort.

_Can you hear me?_

"—moving on without me...Erin may be _dying_ and they won't even let me see her. But—even if I _did_ go see her, she probably won't remember..."

He tried to fight his way through the quicksand, frustrated that his body wouldn't react. _Beej, I'm here! Let me help... _

"When I was lying here months ago, you once said you...thought of me like a brother."

_Great, you heard that too? I might as well announce it over the P.A. system... _

B.J. never did reveal exactly how much he'd heard that day. In fact neither of them had mentioned his embarrassingly honest confession since it occurred, but he'd noticed a subtle change in his friend's mannerisms afterwards: how the man would delicately prod him to open up when the world was crashing down around him, pestering him in the frustrating, maddening, wonderfully compassionate way only B.J. could manage—

Wait a minute. "Lying here"? Where was "here"?

_Damn it, B.J., answer me! Where am I?_

"...none of this was your fault. You really shouldn't get in the habit of reading my mail, but I won't shoot the messenger. Besides, I'm...well, this is my somewhat inept way of trying to say I feel the same way, okay?"

His agitation eased as he listened, and somewhere in the distance he felt his body relax—even the pain he felt with each breath lessened a degree. He drifted in the shadows, letting the reassuring words take hold; for some reason, the darkness that stretched into eternity around him didn't seem quite as threatening now.

"—abandoning you. Still, I can't help thinking none of this would have happened if I'd found you in time. I guess that makes me a horrible brother..."

He could hear the raw torment seething behind his friend's words, and his heart ached. _God, Beej...if only I knew where you were..._

The chill surrounding him drew nearer, pulling him deeper into the quicksand. It felt oddly comfortable, like a favorite blanket. He stopped resisting and allowed it to wind itself around him, numbing his thoughts and senses. It was just too cold to keep fighting...

B.J.'s voice began to fade into the darkness, and the panic set in again. _Don't leave! I don't know if I can ever find you again... _

"...promise _you_ I'll be here. I won't abandon you...I just thought you should know that. You _deserve_ to know that."

Something far above him reached down, and he felt a vaguely familiar sensation—a mild electric jolt. It brought him back to the frightening time he was standing over B.J.'s lifeless body in the O.R., praying to God he would live; a sharp, cold hand had touched his shoulder then, and he'd felt that same spark he just felt now.

Only...this time it was warm.

A rush of energy suddenly flowed through him, bringing with it a renewed strength. It filled his body, freeing his limbs from the murky quicksand. The warmth was inviting, chasing away the shadows that had attached themselves to him. Drawing willpower from this unexpected source of strength, he tried to claw his way out of the abyss.

Looking up, he could see a dim light shining directly above him. He struggled to cry out, to let someone know he was still there—still _alive_. A sharp gasp of pain forced itself from him as the darkness bit into his body, determined not to let him go. The bitter chill raked sharply across his face, battling the newfound warmth coursing through him, as angry shadows threatened to rip him apart from the inside out. He reached out, trying to hold on, to grasp something—_anything_—to pull himself into that light.

He could hear someone screaming...


	10. Siblings

**Thanks for the reviews so far. I always welcome more.**

* * *

B.J. felt Pierce's brow tense beneath his hand. Glancing down in surprise, he watched the man's features twitch, then relax. A barely audible moan sounded from behind the oxygen mask. "Hawkeye?" he asked sharply.

He removed his hand from his friend's forehead, but Hawkeye's own hand suddenly lurched upwards to grasp his arm with the desperation of a drowning man. He flinched at the vice-like grip, but didn't pull away. Placing his other hand on top of Pierce's firm grasp, he asked again, "Hawk, can you hear me?"

At the commotion, Charles glanced up from the stack of paperwork he'd been going through. Standing abruptly, he raced over to see Pierce practically wrenching Hunnicut's arm from its socket. B.J. didn't seem to notice as he immediately reached with his free hand to lift up one of the man's eyelids. "Hawk!" he called out, louder this time. "Come back to us, pal!"

Charles brought out a penlight and shined it into his bunkmate's eyes. Hawkeye responded by gasping wildly and jerking his head away, squeezing his eyes shut. His entire body tensed, and he tried to tear the oxygen mask from his face.

B.J. gently helped him lift the offending instrument away, ignoring the fact his trapped arm was now rapidly turning purple. The memory of his friend's vacant, unaware gaze yesterday taunted him as he assessed the man's current condition. "Calm down, Hawk," he instructed, sounding far more composed than he actually was.

_Show me you're okay. Please..._

He gingerly grasped Hawkeye's shoulders and quieted his thrashing. The man seemed to relax, and stopped fighting. "Open your eyes if you can hear me," B.J. said. To Winchester's ears, it sounded more like a plea than a command.

Pierce didn't react, and for a minute B.J. thought his friend had slipped back into unconsciousness. He shot a frustrated look at Charles, who held up a placating hand as he watched Hawkeye's face closely.

A single eye opened halfway, followed immediately by a muted groan deep in the man's throat. The eye promptly closed again.

B.J. forcefully tapped the side of his face. "Come on, you'll have plenty of time to sleep when I'm not busy worrying about you."

Both eyelids gradually blinked open, revealing hazy blue orbs that locked with his own.

_You're not the nurse I ordered for breakfast, _Hawkeye thought blearily, but when he tried to vocalize it he started coughing uncontrollably. B.J. brought the oxygen mask up to his face again and his windpipe relaxed. He finally released his death grip on B.J.'s arm, much to his friend's relief. The feeling would return to it soon...probably...

"I'll alert the Colonel," Charles said quietly, and slipped out of post-op. B.J. barely noticed as he searched Hawkeye's face for some sign of recognition. He saw that the man's pupils were back to normal; he just hoped everything else was, too. "How are you feeling?"

Pierce massaged his throat, clearing it painfully before taking the mask off again. Learning from his previous mistake, he spoke slowly and carefully. "Like the aftermath of a marine's shore leave—completely spent, with just enough dignity left over to feel regret." He cringed and rubbed his temples. "Whoever rented my head out to a jackhammer enthusiast should be sent to bed without dinner."

B.J. smiled weakly; at least his humor had come through intact. "You should be thankful—he probably chased away all the bats."

Hawkeye closed his eyes wearily. "What happened?" he asked hoarsely.

"Klinger said he 'found' a source of firewood for us. I guess we forgot to clean out the stove like we were supposed to." B.J. eyed his friend critically as he replied, every muscle in his body tensing.

"Oh..." Shadowy memories of the incident surfaced in Hawkeye's brain, but the pounding in his head drowned them out. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, hoping that driving them deeper into his skull would ease the pain.

B.J. absently chewed the part of his lip that had bled earlier._ I have to find out, or I'm going to lose my mind_. "Mind if I ask something?" His voice was deceptively aloof.

"Just make sure it doesn't involve loud noises of any kind."

"What's your name?"

"It depends on which hotel is calling," Hawkeye responded dully, trying hard to shake off his lethargy. Glancing up at B.J., he suddenly realized the man was very serious. "Why?"

B.J. shrugged, non-committal. "It's just a question."

Hawkeye watched him silently through his daze. As far as doctors were concerned, there was no such thing as "just a question". How bad _was_ his condition for his friend to ask something like that?

He saw the worry lines deepening in B.J.'s face, and realized it would only get worse every second he neglected to respond. Clearing his throat again, he answered, "Benjamin Franklin Pierce at your service. Known as Hawkeye to his friends, 'Hey You' to his non-friends, and Casanova to those he'd like to know on friendlier terms."

He expected a relieved grin to cross B.J.'s face. He didn't expect the man to clench his fists and force back a sob. "Hey, I'm sorry," he said, alarmed. "Was that the wrong answer?"

B.J. shook his head mutely. Before he realized what he was doing, he lunged forward and hugged Hawkeye tightly, feeling the heartbeat that had been terrifyingly absent the day before.

He recalled the haunting images he'd witnessed in Pierce's mind when his own life was in danger, starting to understand more clearly the raw fear behind them. _"I don't want to be alone," _his friend had thought back then; now, as he grasped Hawkeye tightly, relying on the steady rhythm of his pulse to assure himself the man was okay, he truly understood the meaning of those words.

Hawkeye numbly returned the embrace, still in shock. He could feel the subtle tremors of fatigue coursing through his friend's body, a sensation he was more accustomed to feeling himself. He didn't dare move, not exactly sure who was supporting whom. _I just wanted to help...and I only ended up scaring the hell out of him. _He closed his eyes, blinking back tears of exhaustion. Some friend _he_ was; he hadn't helped B.J. at all.

The two men embraced in silence, neither knowing what to say. Finally, Hawkeye's raspy voice sounded from somewhere behind B.J.'s lab coat. "Beej—I…air…"

"Oh. Sorry." B.J. released his grip, unaware he'd been holding on so tightly.

Pierce gently rubbed his neck and inhaled, watching his friend carefully. "When was the last time you slept?"

B.J. didn't answer as he sat down again. He didn't need to; he had a feeling Hawkeye already knew the answer. "Do you have any clue how worried I was? I didn't know how long you'd stopped breathing. I thought...maybe..." he trailed off, painfully aware of his wavering tone.

"Maybe I broke the four minute rule?" Hawkeye finished softly. "As far as I know, my cognitive abilities and memory are just fine—the past twenty-four hours notwithstanding. If I start suturing patients with yarn and singing along with Charles' records, then you can worry."

B.J. stared into the distance. "You don't get it, Hawk. First my daughter gets sick, then my best friend damn near dies on me when I'm not looking. It's been—I mean, I couldn't...I just felt..."

_Alone. _

The word hung in the air, unspoken but loud enough for them both to hear. Their eyes met, and Hawkeye could almost visibly see B.J.'s frayed nerves. Sensing the silent anguish behind his friend's words, he reached out and touched the man's knee reassuringly. "I'm not sure which of us needs this bed more," he commented gently. "I'm sorry."

"Just don't do it again, okay?" B.J. gazed at his friend, quite serious despite the somewhat ridiculous request.

A response was on the tip of Hawkeye's tongue when Klinger came barreling in. "Sorry to bother you, Captain, but I just got news over—" He stopped abruptly at the sight of Pierce. "Hey! Good to see you up! How're ya doing?" His features darkened as he added, "I'm sorry my present didn't turn out as expected. I just wanted to help. You okay?" His question was edged with the same tension that had lined B.J.'s face earlier.

"Don't worry, Klinger—this is just proof that I can take on any clogged stove in Korea and still smoke the competition."

B.J. shot a withering glance in Hawkeye's direction at the bad pun. "What is it, Klinger?"

"Wha—? Oh, right. An aid station just told us to expect incoming wounded any minute now. A patrol of _our_ guys came across a patrol of the _other_ guys a few hours ago, and let's just say it didn't end with a handshake and a tea party."

"They told you? On the phone?" A hopeful note lingered in B.J.'s voice.

"Sorry, sir, they used the radio. Their phone line's been out even longer than ours," Klinger replied apologetically.

Hawkeye watched as B.J.'s spirits plummeted through the floor, and held back a sigh. "Keep working on the phone, Klinger," he said. "Or at least strap a 'Get Well' note to a San Francisco-bound pigeon."

"Yessir." Klinger nodded and turned to leave. Pierce added, "And dust the lobby, will you? Beej and I will put out the vacancy sign for our new guests."

"Excuse me?" B.J. raised an eyebrow as Klinger left.

"We don't know how many are coming. You're gonna need help."

"I don't recall discharging you yet."

"I'm discharging myself. My name _does_ have M.D. after it, you know," Hawkeye reminded him peevishly as he tried to stand.

He never made it. Only managing to struggle into a sitting position, he almost immediately fell back onto the bed—more from the sudden change in blood pressure than from B.J.'s restraining hand. The jackhammer enthusiast responded by pounding even harder inside his skull, and Hawkeye let out a muffled groan as he grasped his head.

"Yeah? Well _my_ M.D.'s at the bottom of your medical chart, and I say you can't leave yet," B.J. responded with equal annoyance. " My God, Hawk, seventeen hours ago we weren't even sure you'd ever wake up! I've been sitting here the entire night wondering if my best friend would even _remember_ me! You might as well enjoy the rest while you can."

"Oh, come on! You've been awake for so long your bed can't remember what you look like!"

"Yes, but I'm not the one with carbon attached to every blood cell in my body."

"_Beej_—"

"I said no! Stop playing the hero, okay? Charles and I can handle it. And with Colonel Potter as the playground monitor it shouldn't take long." He caught the sullen look on Hawkeye's face and couldn't hold back a brief, relieved smile—just to see _any_ look on his friend's face was welcome.

His tone softened. "Look, I'll come back with a report. Will that make you feel better?"

"Do I have a choice?" Hawkeye's irritation was evident, but he calmed down and folded his arms in resignation. The two men watched each other silently, listening to the muted din outside post-op.

Something in B.J.'s posture made Hawkeye pause, then smile. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Beej?"

"Yeah?"

"I know I came into the world a little before you, but if we really are brothers…are you the older or younger one?"

B.J. blinked, confused. "Huh?" After a moment, realization suddenly dawned on him. "I—wait. You _heard _that?"

"What did you think I was doing all that time I was unconscious—sleeping?" Hawkeye matched B.J.'s indignant expression with feigned innocence, then sobered and rubbed his eyes. His voice lowered, and B.J. strained to hear the words. "Why is it we always wait to say the most important things until we each think the other can't hear us?"

B.J. thought for a moment. "I dunno," he answered finally. "Maybe…because the most important things to say are sometimes the hardest to admit?"

"Maybe." Hawkeye chewed his thumbnail in thought. "I wonder if you—"

Whatever he planned to say was lost in a cacophony of shrieking metal as a loud _crash _sounded outside.


	11. Anger Management

**At the time I post this chapter, there's an astounding 43 reviews for my fanfic. I'm genuinely honored and grateful, and would like to thank you all for taking the time to read this story and comment on it. As always, more are welcome, and I hope you enjoy the rest of "Pieces On Earth".**

* * *

The two surgeons briefly shared a stunned look, then B.J. scrambled towards the door. "You stay there, Hawk," he called out as he reached the door, knowing without looking that the man was already trying to get out of bed for the second time.

Hawkeye grunted in irritation; he hated being treated like an invalid. Then again, he also hated having a headache worse than any hangover without the fun that normally preceded it. B.J. had a point, but that didn't make waiting any easier.

"Be careful, Beej," he muttered softly.

* * *

The first thing B.J. noticed when he got outside was that the hillside near the landing pad was on fire. As he drew closer he could see part of a detached chopper blade sticking out of the supply tent, and sincerely hoped no one had been inside.

He followed the wave of personnel running up to the scene of the crash, taking note of where the twisted metal fragments had landed. Thankfully no one on the ground seemed to be hurt by the flying debris—which was more than he could say about the occupants of the helicopter.

When he arrived, his eyes swept the area. The pilot had managed to bring the helicopter _near_ the landing pad, but didn't quite make it. The rear rotor blade seemed to have been sheared off upon impact, which would explain why it was now part of the supply tent's architecture.

Both pods of the chopper had been used, meaning there were three people hurt worse now than when they'd taken off. He quickly assessed the injuries of the soldier nearest to him, who had rolled several yards away after hitting the ground; it didn't take more than a second to realize nothing more could be done.

He noticed Major Houlihan waving him over to check on the pilot, who'd been thrown clear of the crash. "What happened?" he asked over the roar of the fire, inspecting the man's injuries.

"The Chinese got lucky," the pilot wheezed, holding his ribs. "I was flying low. They surprised us on the way here and damn near shot our tail off!"

"Klinger said there are more casualties coming by bus," Margaret interrupted with urgency.

"Of course there are," B.J. replied darkly as he finished examining the pilot. "All right, looks like you're first in line for the suture parade." Giving Margaret instructions to have type-specific blood ready for a quick transfusion, he saw Charles had arrived and was working on the soldier who had been in the other pod. Their eyes met briefly, quietly reflecting the muted horror of the scene before them.

Klinger was right; within five minutes the bus arrived, carrying soldiers from both sides of the war. Slowed and weakened by exhaustion, B.J. did his best to concentrate and prioritize the injuries accordingly.

Noticing the significant delay in the Captain's actions, Charles decided it was best to keep one eye on the incoming patients…and the other on Hunnicut.

* * *

As the hours wore on, B.J. felt like sticking his head in the snow outside just to wake up. He had long since switched to automatic pilot, his hands moving with little more than muscle memory over the bodies as they were loaded on and off his table. Other than pausing every now and then to get a report on Hawkeye's condition, his routine didn't vary. For a brief period he actually wondered if he'd been operating in his sleep.

"Hunnicut?" Potter's voice snapped him out of his daze, and he realized his last patient had just been removed. He glanced up to find the older man scrutinizing him carefully.

"We're almost done here," the Colonel said softly. "You've had quite a day—it's amazing your eyelids aren't being propped open by now. There are only a couple of minor injuries still in the gate, and Pierce seems to be out of danger for now. Why don't you grab some shut-eye?"

"Thought you'd never ask," B.J. responded tiredly as he stripped off his gloves. The ringing in his head was reaching a fever pitch, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was seriously regretting his decision to keep Hawkeye in bed.

"Who said I was asking?" Potter remarked, a hidden smile lurking behind his mask. "You might as well go while there's a lull in the action. Besides, I have the Major's warm personality to brighten my day."

"I live for your amusement, Colonel," Charles responded dryly.

A scream outside cut the conversation short. Potter stopped working and glanced up irritably. "_Now_ what? Can't this camp calm down long enough to go back to its usual chaos?"

"I'll check it out," B.J. offered. He took his mask and cap off as he headed out of the operating room and rounded the corner—then stopped short at the scene unfolding just outside the surgical tent's doors.

A North Korean soldier, obviously injured and more than a little frightened, was holding onto Nurse Baker in one hand and aiming a pistol at her in the other.

"Uh—Colonel...ah..." B.J. stammered.

"What's going on out there, Hunnicut? I can't stop what I'm doing every time one of the enlisted men gets a burr in his saddle."

Words failed B.J. as he watched the man in the compound holding the others at bay, keeping the gun level to Baker's temple. His exhaustion vanished in an instant, replaced by a terror-infused surge of adrenaline.

"Well?" Colonel Potter asked sharply, deciding he didn't like the strange expression on the man's face.

B.J.'s answer came tumbling out in a simple, stunned sentence: "Someone's holding Baker hostage."

Potter and Charles exchanged incredulous glances. "_What?_" they asked in unison.

"North Korean. With a gun," B.J. continued disjointedly, trying to keep up with the impulses racing through his mind. He observed Father Mulcahy in front of the crowd, trying to calm the frightened soldier down. From the confused look on both their faces, he could tell the chaplain wasn't getting very far.

Catching movement in the corner of his eye, the soldier turned to see B.J. through the surgical tent's doors. Their eyes met, and B.J. instinctively knew what was coming next.

"Colonel, get everyone out of here!" he shouted into the O.R. "He's coming in!" Even as he spoke, the North Korean pulled Nurse Baker closer and started dragging her towards the tent.

"If I drop this patient's liver he won't grow another one, Hunnicut," Potter replied tensely. "Winchester, go on—you're not up to your elbows in intestines. And take the nurses with you!"

Charles stared at him blankly, still trying to grasp the sudden crisis.

"_Now, _Major," Potter barked. "That's an order!"

A horror-stricken B.J. glanced between the rapidly approaching solider and the Colonel, covered in blood and refusing to move. How did he keep getting into these situations?

He took a deep breath. _I can't believe I'm even thinking this._ With a final glance in Potter's direction he pushed open the door and stepped out, ignoring the older man's order to stop; he had to stall the soldier somehow, giving the Colonel time to stabilize the patient and get away.

Startled by the American's actions, the injured soldier swung the pistol wildly in his direction and grabbed Nurse Baker's neck in a chokehold. B.J. could see the fear in her eyes, and tried to push aside his own as he held up his hands. The man shouted something in Korean, making him wish he had spent more time learning the language.

"Look, fella," he began, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. "You don't have to get anyone else involved. Just let her go, and I'll see if we can figure out where you've sprung a leak." A shiver passed through him; he wasn't sure if it was from the biting wind or his badly worn nerves. Stretching out an assuaging hand, he discovered it was shaking.

The soldier gestured with the gun, and after a second B.J. realized he was being ordered back into the surgical tent. He also realized if he did, he automatically put Colonel Potter in danger along with whoever was still left in the O.R. "I can't do that," he said gently. "As long as you're holding that thing to our nurse's head, there's going to be a lot of things I can't do. Understand?" It was a stupid question—of course the man didn't understand. But maybe he could win the scared soldier's trust long enough to get Baker to safety...

The man replied by shouting something in his native tongue—and aiming the gun straight between B.J.'s eyes. There was a gasp from the otherwise silent crowd, but he hardly noticed it as he stared down the pistol's barrel.

Maybe it was the threat of dying at the hands of a complete stranger...or maybe it was the laughably ironic situation he now found himself in. Maybe he was exhausted and just wanted to go home, looking upon everything that stood in his way as a threat to be eradicated.

Whatever the reason, B.J. could audibly hear his last nerve snap, taking with it all rationality. Long-suppressed rage bubbled up inside him, searing hot and alarmingly powerful. It flooded his veins, taking over every thought and muscle in his body.

He didn't ask to be here; he didn't _want_ to be here. Yet here he was, patching up the sons of other peoples' families while his own fell apart in Mill Valley, far away...and as the final kicker, after enduring the hardship and sanity-shredding pressures of Army medicine, he was going to die less than fifteen feet from an operating room.

_How __**dare**__ you?_

The soldier noticed the sudden change in B.J.'s eyes, but before he could react the surgeon had swiftly closed the gap and placed his hand over the gun. Baker took the opportunity to break free and run, which had been part of B.J.'s plan...but now he found himself locked in a bitter struggle with the intruder.

Through his crimson haze he saw the man's eyes widen—and felt a hand flex around the trigger. With blinding, unchecked fury he crushed the soldier's grip against the cold metal and wrenched the pistol away from his head, inadvertently pulling the other man close enough that a sheet of paper couldn't fit between them.

He felt the gun sliding...

Then his own finger found the trigger.

* * *

Hawkeye had been resting comfortably in post-op ever since B.J. left, watching the steady flow of incoming patients when he'd heard the scream. Within seconds, news of Baker being taken hostage had spread through the tiny room as the nurses rushed outside.

_Damn. _

He sat up slowly, trying to force back the nausea that accompanied it. Nurse Kellye caught the movement and quickly made her way over; she knew exactly what he was planning. "Don't, Hawkeye," she warned, trying to gently push him back down.

"I have to. Otherwise my reputation among the ladies as the dashing young hero will be ruined."

"You're not well enough."

"I am for this," he replied, removing her hands from his shoulders. "Believe me, if I can give him half the headache I have right now, I guarantee you he won't be a problem for long."

"This is serious," she insisted, the panic evident in her voice.

"So am I," he shot back, trying to stand up. His nervous system rebelled, sending pain through his legs with every movement. After several tries he finally managed to stagger to his feet, with Kellye's reluctant assistance.

"Don't do anything stupid," she pleaded.

"Who, me?" His stomach churned, echoing Kellye's warning. "I'll just find out what he came here for, ask him for the gun as payment and leave." He took a step, trying to conceal his vertigo. "And if that fails, I'll just throw up on him."

Using the beds he passed as handrails, he made it halfway across the room when he heard someone outside exclaim, "That's Captain Hunnicut!"

A knife twisted in his heart. _Looks like Beej has the hero gene, too, _he thought as he gripped the foot of the next bed. _I hope he's smarter than I am._

He finally reached the doors, and was immediately driven back by the cold air. His lungs seized, reminding him of his own recent ordeal, and he struggled to inhale. Grasping the doorframe, he leaned heavily against it and forced himself to breathe as he watched the throng of people in front of him. As the seconds passed, several scenarios ran through his mind involving his best friend and the situation B.J. now faced—most of them with less than desirable outcomes.

Someone in the crowd gasped, and a few seconds later he caught a glimpse of Nurse Baker running from her captor. Her friends immediately whisked her to safety, which left only one person unaccounted for.

A strange fear overtook him, lending strength to his legs as he pushed his way through the crowd. Although he still wasn't able to see B.J. through the mass of people, something deep inside him knew the man was in serious trouble.

That fear was driven home when he heard the shot.

_Oh God, please don't... _

He finally fought his way to the front of the crowd, expecting the worst. He found B.J. kneeling on the ground, staring into space; his hands were bathed in blood. The North Korean lay a few inches from him, unmoving.

It was unclear what had transpired as Hawkeye stumbled his way over and knelt next to B.J. "You okay?" he asked, checking his friend for wounds. Thankfully, he seemed to be bullet-free.

B.J. looked up at him wordlessly, obviously in shock.

"Okay, take it easy," Hawkeye continued, rattled by the man's demeanor. "Let's get you and our friend here inside."

"I...the trigger...I actually felt—and he..." B.J. trailed off as he stared at his friend's confused expression, trying to put his sickening feeling into words. Finally, he swallowed hard, and his next sentence chilled Pierce to the bone:

"Hawk—I think I pulled the trigger. I think...I killed him."


	12. Shadows

**NOTE: This chapter references events from my previous fanfic, "It Ends Here Tonight".**

**Thank you for the reviews so far; as always, more are welcome. ****We're almost done.**

* * *

Hawkeye wasn't sure he'd heard right. No—actually he _was_ sure of it; he just didn't believe it. "What?"

B.J. numbly shifted his gaze down at the soldier lying in the dirt. Pierce kept one hand on B.J.'s shoulder, trying both to support his friend and to stop the world from spinning. Reaching out with the other hand to feel for the intruder's pulse, he drew back when he couldn't find one. _He may be right_.

He called out for assistance, and instructed the corpsmen who arrived to usher the enemy soldier into pre-op; maybe there was a chance B.J.'s prediction wouldn't come true.

Between his own dizziness and his friend's blank stare, he had the feeling neither of them were in any condition to operate on the man. "Where's Colonel Potter?" he asked.

"Inside," came B.J.'s distant reply. Pierce assumed he meant the surgical tent.

"All right. Someone find him and tell him he may have one more fan waiting in the wings." He glanced back at B.J. to find all color had drained from his face.

"Beej," he called softly, trying to catch the man's attention.

B.J. stared down at his blood-soaked hands. _I'm a murderer. I hurt my friends...kill my enemies in cold blood..._

"B.J."

_Can't save anyone..._

"B.J.!" Hawkeye cupped his friend's face, forcing the man to look at him. "Look, whatever happened—whatever you _think_ happened—you only did it to save Baker and protect yourself. You had no choice."

It was painfully clear B.J. didn't believe a word.

With the immediate threat over, the crowd slowly began to disperse. Father Mulcahy approached them, but Hawkeye silently pointed in the direction the soldier had been taken. Understanding his meaning, the priest turned and headed off in that direction; even if the intruder wasn't Catholic, as long as Mulcahy was in charge, no man's passing would go without acknowledgment.

"Come on, Beej, let's get out of the cold."

He shifted his weight to stand—then nearly landed on his friend as his splitting headache spread like fire down his neck and into his shoulders. The world was spinning faster now; thousands of needles began pricking his lungs. It was rapidly becoming more difficult to inhale, and for the first time since he fled post-op he began to wonder if he'd made the right decision.

Breathing heavily, he muttered, "Uh...I know this sounds strange...given the situation, but...I think you may actually have...to help _me_ up."

Through his daze B.J. caught the almost asthmatic quality to Hawkeye's voice, and glanced up to find the man rubbing his chest as though it would ease the spasms in his lungs. It didn't.

His blood-soaked hand automatically reached out to help steady the man, and the pair struggled to stand in the frozen mud. Under other circumstances the scene might have appeared almost comical, but neither of them felt like cracking so much as a smile.

"Okay, this may not have been my brightest idea," Hawkeye admitted hoarsely, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea. "Not that you left me much choice, rushing off to save the day like that." He felt the other man trembling beneath his grasp, and realized the frigid climate had very little to do with it. "Why don't we give post-op a visit while the stage crew cleans up around here for the next act, huh?"

The two surgeons slowly made their way across the compound. Hawkeye stole a glance at his friend, frightened by what he saw. _Does he really think he killed that soldier?_

_And if he did...will he ever come back from that?  
_

* * *

Throughout the afternoon, the camp slowly returned to normal. The chopper pad was cleared of debris, the blade removed from the supply tent; only a few charred patches of grass served as a reminder of the morning's crisis.

Baker was given the day off to recuperate, and after B.J. was examined for any further signs of shock, he too was released from duty. Hawkeye had planned to follow his friend back to their tent, but the extra aggravation he'd caused his respiratory system meant he would only have Charles to talk to in post-op for the next few hours...much to both his and the Major's chagrin.

A barely noticeable layer of soot still covered the tent's interior, but most of the area had been thoroughly scrubbed and the cots replaced. Even the still had been cleaned within an inch of its life and a new batch of liquid delight was happily bubbling away, almost like an extra gift to the tent's occupants (or perhaps an apology from a certain Lebanese clerk.) If it wasn't for the faint smell of smoke damage, no one would have ever guessed what had happened. There was something to be said about Army efficiency—sometimes even positive.

As the day dragged on, sleep came in fits for B.J. The rest of the time he lay on his bed with a newly washed martini glass, trying his best to forget the events of the past twenty-four hours. If he kept drinking, maybe he'd get lucky and forget his name, too...

The door opened softly, and Hawkeye hesitantly entered the tent. The headache had finally eased, though his lungs still complained bitterly. Charles was reluctant to release him, but Colonel Potter had finished his investigation of the enemy soldier's wounds and decided it was best if the news came from the man B.J. trusted most. Now, watching B.J.'s disturbingly still figure, he wasn't so sure.

"How's it going?" he asked, wincing even as the words left his mouth. _That's a stupid question_.

B.J. drained his glass as a silent response. Hawkeye sat down on his own cot, watching the drink disappear. They both knew hard liquor only complicated symptoms of shock, but neither felt like pointing that out.

After a long silence, B.J. asked without glancing up, "He's dead, isn't he?"

Another pause. "Yeah."

B.J. refilled his glass from the decanter next to his bed. Hawkeye observed him carefully as he explained, "From what we can tell, the guy probably saw the chopper crash and followed the fire to our camp, looking for a wounded friend. Anyway, the autopsy showed he had a number of wounds long before the—"

He stopped short of saying _gunshot_, but they both heard it. B.J. took another sip as Hawkeye went on.

"Colonel Potter says he was almost dead from those wounds before you ever met him. The angle that the bullet entered him means it was probably impossible for you to have pulled the trigger, unless you were physically occupying the same space he was. Which, last I checked in my high school physics book, is on the Big List of No-Nos."

"'Probably'. He's not sure." It wasn't a question.

"The odds are in your favor, Beej."

Another uncomfortable silence filled the air around them; half of the liquid in B.J.'s glass disappeared.

"I wanted to kill him."

"You didn't."

"But I _wanted_ to."

"B.J." Pierce's voice was quiet...and unusually commanding. B.J. finally turned to look at him.

Hawkeye paused. There it was again—that same look he had seen from his friend the day before, and only once before that. It was the look B.J. had given him right after emptying the contents of his stomach on the ride back from Kimpo. That mix of shock and dull horror, the look that clearly said "I can't do this". B.J. had searched his face back then for some type of reassurance, a confirmation that the madness around them was just a bad dream. The hope that he would wake up...

Pierce remembered stretching his hand out to the young man—B.J. had looked so much younger back then—and helping him to his feet. In that single grasp he'd managed to ease the newcomer's anxiety, but he never dismissed it; he knew B.J.'s future in Korea was going to be everything he feared, and worse.

B.J. had looked so lost then. Exactly the way he looked now—searching his friend's face, pleading for some kind of sign that it was all just a nightmare. Hawkeye bit back a frustrated sigh; he'd tried so _hard_ to protect his friend...

"God, Beej. I'm so sorry."

"You?" B.J. sat up slowly, squinting at him through gin-blurred eyes. "Why?"

"I wasn't there when you needed me. I feel like I failed you."

B.J. recalled his earlier conversation with Winchester: _I'm a failure, you know._ It seemed like there was a lot of that going around.

He shook his head and glanced away, trying to keep his voice under control. "No, Hawk. You're not the one who abandoned your family...killed a soldier just because you were angry...almost let your best friend suffocate less than—"

"Will you shut up already?" Hawkeye interrupted, sliding swiftly from his cot to the chair next to it so he could sit closer. He didn't even try to hide his annoyance at his friend's denseness. "First of all, you did _not_ abandon your family, your draft board did. Second, did it ever occur to that thick head of yours that I'm only alive and able to chew you out now because you _were_ there to help me?"

He forced himself to calm down as his headache threatened an encore. At least B.J. was watching him now, which gave him hope that the man was listening.

His irritation dissipated, and his voice softened. "Listen, Beej. It was your voice that helped me find my way back. I...I'm not sure what would have happened if you weren't there—I'd probably still be lying in post-op. I owe you. A lot. Let me help...okay?"

B.J. unconsciously scratched the scar on his chest as he listened to the man's words. For a second, it almost looked like he was going to cry. Then he inhaled sharply; Hawkeye could see the pain that seemed to radiate straight into the core of his soul.

"I've changed, Hawk," he stated flatly. His voice seemed faraway, almost like it was coming from somewhere outside himself.

"We've all changed, Beej."

"Not like this." B.J. closed his eyes. His friend briefly thought he'd fallen asleep sitting up, but he opened them again as he continued, "I'm just so..._angry _now. Very...angry. If you'd told me when I got here this is how I'd end up, I would have laughed—or maybe taken the next plane back to the states."

He set the martini glass down. "Look at me. I barely ever touched a drink before coming here. Now my day doesn't feel complete without one. Hell, even this very second I'd go out of my way for another one if I thought it would make me feel less than what I'm feeling now."

Hawkeye had no response. He knew the hidden fear behind his friend's words—it was the same fear that had visited them all. There were times he himself wondered if he'd be able to leave his heavy drinking—and everything else—behind him when he went home. Even now, watching B.J. pour his heart out, he wondered if he would have the strength to walk away from his own demons at the end of the day.

"I drink to stop feeling, then when it doesn't work I get angry." B.J. traced his knuckle absently as his voice tightened. "And then...I tend to hurt the people I care about the most. Like you, unless you've forgotten."

"Uh, no," Hawkeye replied quietly. "My face still warns me to stay away from your fists when you're drunk and touchy." _Like now._

B.J. squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. "That's what I mean. What's going to happen when I go back and Peg does something to annoy me? Or—even Erin? I never thought I could...but then you—and that soldier...you don't get it, Hawkeye, I've changed so _much_..."

Pierce suddenly understood the implication of the man's tirade. In a flash he leaned forward and grasped B.J.'s elbow to get his attention. His friend glanced at him sullenly, traces of depression and inebriation lurking at the edges of his eyes. "Is this the same B.J. Hunnicut that drives me out of the tent reading his wife's letters a hundred times—_out loud_? The same one who loses his mind every time she writes about normal things wives do, like getting the car fixed?"

B.J. shook his head and started to reply, but Hawkeye interrupted. "_No_. I know you, all right? I don't know anything about the B.J. you described before you got here—I know _you, _here and now_._ And the man I'm looking at would never raise a hand to his wife _or _daughter, in anger or any other kind of emotion."

The other man rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked away, his overworked mind battling the increasing fatigue and guilt. Pierce realized from the subtle gesture that he wasn't getting through.

"Look, you want to talk about change?" he asked, exasperated. He really didn't want to get into this now, but... "Do you really think I'm like this at home? When I got here I'd like to think I had half a mind left—now I'm not even sure I have that!"

The sudden edge in Pierce's voice forced B.J. to glance up, and he could see his friend fighting back tears of his own. Frightened eyes shifted out of focus as Hawkeye continued, "You've been my only constant in this God-forsaken place, and I _still_ have doubts if I'll make it out of here. There are days I wonder just how long it'll be before I end up in the Army's rubber room for VIPs—Very Ill Persons. If you don't think _you_ can make it, then how the hell am _I_ supposed to get through?"

B.J. could sense he was starting to lose the man. He knew just how powerful Hawkeye's fear of losing his mind was—he was probably the only person in the camp who did. For a brief second his own troubles abated, and by instinct his hand went out to comfort his roommate. "Easy, Hawk."

Hawkeye stopped abruptly at the light touch, his eyes coming back into focus. The two men regarded each other in silent understanding for a long time, their mutual fear and anger made glaringly obvious in the form of scalding, bitter tears.

Neither said a word as they allowed themselves to open up to the only other person in the world who truly understood the heartbreak behind each tear. After a moment, they embraced—not the earlier, desperate grip of two lost men adrift in a sea of problems, but a simple acknowledgment that the war was taking a toll neither man would fully be able to see until long after it was over.

B.J. finally broke the silence, his voice muffled by the layers of Pierce's clothing. "I'm scared," he admitted. "The Army took me from my family, turned me into someone I don't even recognize...and now they may have taken my family from _me_. I can't ever go back to being who I was before—I'm not the man she fell in love with."

Hawkeye pulled away so he could look his friend in the eyes. "You're right, you can't go back—none of us can. So what? You learn from the mistakes you make here, and go back as the person you are now. Maybe not as naive and idealistic as you were...but now you can better appreciate what you have in life. _Who_ you have. And if Peg knows you half as well as I do, she'll be proud to be the wife of a new, improved B.J."

Brushing the remaining tears away, B.J. glanced down and studied the soot-lined ground. "It's more than that. I'm...just fragments of what I used to be. Shadows, really. I've known it for weeks, and when I found out about Erin..."

He raked his fingers through his sandy hair before speaking again; his voice sounded hollow. "Hawk—I came here a husband, father...surgeon. And I'm going to leave..."

"...In pieces?" Pierce finished for him, smiling humorlessly at his friend's surprise. "I probably heard more than you were expecting in post-op. I've been told I listen the best when I'm not awake."

"Huh. I guess we're even, then," B.J. responded, thinking back to everything he'd heard Hawkeye confess when the roles had been reversed.

"Guess so...unless you want me to make you some pecan shortbread cookies," Hawkeye replied with a lopsided grin, in a transparent attempt to ease the tension.

A weary smile crossed B.J.'s face. "I think I'd almost rather take my chances in the mess tent." He paused, then said very quietly, "Thanks, Hawk."

"Anytime...what's a brother for, anyway?" Hawkeye thought for a moment, then leaned forward.

"Look...I'm in short supply of answers. I don't even have enough for myself to spare any for you. But I can tell you this: you're strong, whether you believe me or not. And you _will_ get through this damned war."

_Even if I don't._

The pair sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until a shout from Klinger sounded from across the compound. Within seconds, the Corporal was at their door with what was possibly the best news B.J. had heard all year:

"Cap'n Hunnicut, you better come quick! The phone's back up!"


	13. Thaw

**Thank you for the reviews; more are welcome.**

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It was a good thing Klinger had the presence of mind to get out of B.J.'s way; otherwise he would have been knocked to the ground in the surgeon's rush to reach the office. He glanced at a coughing Hawkeye as they tried to catch up, both men thinking the same thing: _It better be good news, or we're all in trouble._

Colonel Potter met the trio in the office with a grim smile. "Better get started, Klinger," he said, gesturing to the phone.

"Already on it," the Corporal announced as he dove into his chair and picked up the receiver.

Father Mulcahy arrived a few moments later, having overheard Klinger's excited announcement. "Did I just hear—"

"You sure did, Padre," Potter confirmed. "Let's just hope there's someone home on the other end to pick up. There's no telling how long that lifeline will hold out from here to the states."

The Colonel looked up at B.J. and Hawkeye, suddenly struck by just how disheveled they both looked. Then again, he reasoned, considering what they'd gone through in the past two days it was a miracle they were still awake and (relatively) alert. "I have a convoy's worth of phone calls to make, Hunnicut," he commented quietly, "but I promised you would get the first crack at it."

"Thanks, Colonel," B.J. replied distantly, all of his attention focused on the phone in Klinger's hand.

After several transfers (and more than a little bartering on Klinger's part) B.J. heard the words he'd been waiting for ever since the frightening ordeal began—"The operator plugged me in. It's ringing."

Pushing the company clerk hastily out of the way, B.J. grabbed the receiver and sat down. _Pick it up, Peg. For God's sake, if you never answer another phone call in your life..._

"What time is it in California?" Potter asked in the background, but B.J. didn't hear Klinger's response. Two rings...three...

_Come __**on**_.

A pin hitting the floor would have sounded louder than a bombshell in that room as everyone held their breath. Major Houlihan, who was working with Winchester in post-op, spotted the group crowded around B.J. and guessed what was going on. Wordlessly she motioned for Charles to follow, and the two of them quietly slipped into the office.

Time ground to a halt. Five rings. Six.

The silence grew to a deafening roar. Hawkeye observed the intense concentration on his friend's face, adding his own silent prayer to the one Mulcahy was undoubtedly reciting to himself. Although Margaret was oblivious to it, Charles suddenly became aware of her arm tightly gripping his as they waited for the news. Even Colonel Potter nervously rubbed the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, hoping the phone line would hold out long enough.

Seven.

Eight.

"Peg!" B.J.'s sudden outburst startled the others, jarring Pierce's already rattled nerves. Peeling himself off the ceiling, he leaned against the desk and tried to ease his palpitating heart.

"Oh, God, it's good to hear your voice," B.J. continued, exhaustion lining his words. "You have n—what? _Yes!_ I love you too." He stopped suddenly, forcing back the flood of emotions threatening to burst forth.

"Listen, sweetheart, we don't know how long this connection will hold out. I got your letter." His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to make out his wife's words through the static. The others listened to his side of the conversation in complete silence, exchanging worried glances. If the news wasn't what B.J. was hoping to hear...

"She's—wait, what? I can't—speak up, Peg, the connection is—" B.J. could hear the panic rising in his voice, unable to control it. He pressed the receiver to his ear so hard it started to ache.

A hand gently grasped his shoulder, and he knew without looking who it was.

Hawkeye felt B.J.'s shoulder tensing and relaxing beneath his grip, as though the movement would clear up the white noise on the line. His friend fell silent for so long he began to fear the worst.

The tension in the room increased until it was almost visible. Margaret's fingernails dug deeper into Charles' arm. The facts no one dared to mention still lingered in their minds: by the time it reached B.J., the letter had already circulated the world, stopping at several locations along the way. If it was too late...

Suddenly B.J. sighed heavily, and all the energy seemed to leave his body. This alarmed Hawkeye, but after a second he realized the gesture was from relief, not despair. "Oh, thank God," the man breathed, and almost immediately the room erupted in cheers.

B.J. covered his ear to block out the noise, but he shared their enthusiasm. "That's the greatest thing I've ever heard in my life! How is her—no, I mean what's—oh, that's beautiful, Peg! _You're_ beautiful!" A short laugh erupted from somewhere within him, releasing the pressure that had been building up the past few days.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be—no, what?...No, I'm just glad she's okay. How are you holding up?" he listened to her response, then smiled wearily. "Me too, sweetheart—I can't begin to tell you." He paused, then lowered his voice. "Peg, wait—I..."

He became acutely aware of the six pairs of eyes watching him, and felt himself redden from the scalp down. "Just...keep writing...okay?"

_Don't forget me._

Whatever his wife told him seemed to be exactly what he needed to hear, and he calmed down considerably. "Yeah...thanks, Peg. Look, give Erin a hug for me, okay?" He paused. "Peg?" Disappointment crossed his face and he set the receiver back in its holder. "Down again," he informed Colonel Potter.

"At least we got the answer you were hoping for," Potter answered with a smile. "Were you able to find out what happened?"

"The doctors were right—it was secondary encephalitis," B.J. replied, "but Peg did the right thing bringing her to the hospital. They were able to arrest it before it caused any permanent damage. It's going to take a while, but they're confident she's going to recover." Despite the simplicity of his words, the others could sense the depth of his relief behind his worn tone.

Everyone took turns congratulating him before heading their separate ways—Colonel Potter to his office, Margaret and Charles back to post-op, Mulcahy and Klinger to the frozen outdoors...the latter muttering something about swimming to San Francisco personally to set up a stronger phone line.

As silence settled over the room again, B.J. stretched and massaged the back of his neck. If he never went through something like that again, it still wouldn't compensate for the stress and terror of the past two days. He slumped forward and put his head in his hands, adrenaline-fueled excitement rapidly giving way to mind-numbing exhaustion. He doubted he even had the energy to drag himself back to his tent...

"You're the most important man in her life, you know," a quiet voice sounded behind him. "How could she forget that?"

B.J. swiveled in the chair and looked up to find Hawkeye leaning against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, watching him with a well-practiced expression of innocence. He returned the man's gaze, surprised at just how accurately his friend had pinpointed his underlying fear. Then again, he knew Hawkeye could be quite perceptive at times...far more than anyone gave him credit for.

Pierce's eyes sparkled with amusement, and B.J. suddenly realized the man could tell what he was thinking. For a moment, they shared a smile only they understood.

"Aren't you supposed to go back to post-op?" B.J. finally asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm playing hooky. Let's get out of here before the teacher comes."

B.J. was too tired to argue. "Fair enough."

"So..." Hawkeye said, accompanied by a yawn that nearly enveloped his head. "Eat or sleep?" They both paused briefly, then replied at the same time, "Sleep." B.J. stood from the chair (with a little assistance), and they ambled across the room.

"It's just as well," Hawkeye added with a sideways glance. "I hear they're serving smoked ribs today."

B.J. fixed him with a stern but weary glare before opening the door. "Stop that."

A sheepish, apologetic "Ah—well...you know..." could be heard as the pair exited into the frigid air.


	14. And To All A Good Night

**I'd like to thank everyone who read through this entire story, and for all the reviews. I hope you enjoyed the semi-sequel to "It Ends Here Tonight"; please let me know. **

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The days rolled by, and eventually the camp settled back into its usual frenetic pace. Hawkeye refused to return to post-op as a patient under any circumstances, and after a brief battle of wills with Potter (that somehow managed to include two coughing fits along with the words "court martial" and "hog-tie"), the Colonel grudgingly allowed him to recuperate in his tent—under the direct supervision of his bunkmates. Charles decided to leave these "babysitting duties" as he called it to B.J., but both men were aware of the true reason beneath his conceit.

B.J. kept a close, though unobtrusive eye on his friend, looking for any subtle signs that the man's near-asphyxiation had negatively affected him—either in mind or body. Aside from only a partial recollection of the events leading up to the incident, Hawkeye's memories and motor skills seemed intact. Finally satisfied that the recovery had been complete, B.J. allowed his fear to dissipate...to a degree.

During that time Hawkeye was, in turn, observing B.J. Although neither of them had really discussed the issue, he knew the soldier's death weighed heavily on the man's mind—along with the guilt.

It was never firmly established whether B.J. had actually pulled the trigger or not, but Pierce knew ultimately the answer didn't matter: B.J. had confronted his darker side head-on, and was terrified of what had looked back. There were no words of comfort for a situation like that, only the standing offer of a willing ear and a supportive shoulder...and the assurance that they'd all been there before.

Before long, Christmas had arrived, bringing with it the long-awaited annual truce. Though only for a day—and tenuous at best—the paper-thin promise of peace did more to lift the spirits of the personnel than any tree or carol could have accomplished.

Father Mulcahy had arranged for the local war orphans to come and partake in Christmas dinner at the camp, and soon the excited chatter of children filled the air. All of the pint-sized guests seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves...except for one.

B.J. noticed her sitting apart from the others, gazing sullenly at the wall, a barely-touched tray of food in front of her. Her eyes were focused on something far away, well beyond the reaches of the camp. For a girl who couldn't possibly be more than seven years old, the shock and pain of tragedy etched on her face made her seem much older.

He turned to his right and tugged Hawkeye's sleeve, accidentally disturbing the cup of eggnog in the man's hand. "What's the story with her?"

Without missing a beat Pierce swiftly shifted his cup to the hand out of B.J.'s reach and wiped up the newly created spill. "Oh, her? She's one of the orphanage's newer residents," he explained with a note of sympathy. "I heard she was living with her sister and mother after her father was killed in combat, but their village was shelled before they could escape. She's actually pretty lucky—considering."

"If you can call that 'lucky'," B.J. remarked. "So...this is her first Christmas without her family?"

Hawkeye heard the unspoken thoughts behind his friend's question and silently took another sip of his eggnog. He could tell something was brewing in the man's mind, but wasn't sure exactly what.

"It's no wonder she looks like her world just fell apart," B.J. continued with a pensive expression, and Hawkeye glanced at him inquisitively. Something was _definitely _going on.

B.J. caught the look, but instead of answering he merely stood from the bench and made his way out of the mess tent, leaving Hawkeye to stare in bafflement at his retreating figure.

Several minutes passed with no sign of his roommate. Just as he was considering heading out to look for the man, B.J. reemerged—and headed straight for the child they'd discussed earlier.

Ignoring Hawkeye's perplexed gaze, he knelt down next to the girl. "Hi," he said simply, in the friendliest tone possible.

The girl's listless eyes shifted to his face, clearly aware he was addressing her. It was also clear she didn't care. After a moment, her gaze returned to the tent wall.

B.J. observed her with the sad, silent understanding of a father. "Yeah, I don't blame you. I was told never to talk to strangers, too." Glancing around at the revelers packed inside the mess tent—only a third of whom were still completely sober—he added, "And I guess we all look pretty strange right now."

He held up something in his hands, and Hawkeye suddenly understood what the man had done when he left. It was a doll, of sorts; the strangely touching result of hasty construction crafted with loving care. In the course of a few minutes B.J. had managed to run back to his tent, find a scrap of cloth and some string, fashion it into a tiny human-like figure and draw a face on it. For something thought up on the spur of the moment, it looked like a remarkably durable creation.

It took a second for Hawkeye to realize his jaw was on the floor. Closing his mouth, he watched the scene with fascination.

B.J. placed the makeshift toy in the child's unresponsive arms. "Anyway, I thought you might like this. Life can be hard at times—believe me, I know. Hopefully this'll help, at least a little."

The girl glanced down at the offering in her arms, the pain on her small face briefly turning to confusion. For a moment it looked like she was going to cry, but almost immediately her features hardened and she deliberately looked away from the man kneeling before her.

B.J. stood up and gently brushed her hair back. "I know, kiddo, it's not much. But Merry Christmas anyway, okay?"

He turned and made his way back to Hawkeye, only to find the man grinning from ear to ear at him like a proud older (younger?) brother. "That was really something."

"Yeah, maybe." B.J. sat down, absently poking at his own long-abandoned cup of Christmas cheer. "I doubt it'll help a kid in her situation much, though."

"You think so?" Hawkeye lightly touched his arm and gestured in the girl's direction.

B.J. glanced over and saw she had turned her attention back to the doll. Her perpetually guarded expression had lessened almost imperceptibly as she cradled the toy in her arms. There was a vague light of interest in her eyes as she played quietly—she even smiled, if only for a second, as she tried to feed it cranberry sauce.

"You're an amazing man, Beej," Pierce commented softly, shaking his head.

"I know," B.J. answered casually, but felt a grin of his own spread as he watched the girl playing. Even if he couldn't be with his own family today, at least he could provide some small comfort to somebody else's child.

"So what about _your_ present?" Hawkeye's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

B.J. reached into his pocket. "Oh, right." He pulled out a slightly creased envelope, smoothing it out as he studied it. His finger traced the Mill Valley address in the upper-left corner written in his wife's handwriting. Although he'd received the letter three days ago, there were strict instructions on the envelope not to open it until Christmas. Ever since he'd woken up that morning he had been itching to tear it open.

And yet...

"Are you gonna open it or iron it?" Pierce asked incredulously, watching the man press the letter between his fingers, rhythmically rubbing the crease line. "Normally you'd be reading the damn thing out loud for the fifteenth time by now—I should be telling you to shut up."

B.J. set the letter down on the table, unopened. Hawkeye sensed there was a reason behind the man's hesitation, and had a fairly good idea what it was. Setting down his cup, he leaned in towards his friend and touched his elbow. "Beej...the phone lines are up now. If it was bad news, she would—"

"I know." B.J. closed his eyes, and Hawkeye could see traces on his face of the pain and regret that had never fully left. "I'm just—I don't want to take the chance, y'know?"

Hawkeye regarded him silently. After a moment, he put a reassuring hand on the man's back, not saying anything—he didn't need to. Finally, he removed his hand and asked gently, "Want me to open it?"

B.J. shook his head. "You already got a little too close to McGregor's garden last time," he remarked, then sighed. "No, I have to do it. Someone recently told me that letting the pain take control now will only keep me from helping others in the future."

"Who told you that?"

"Oddly enough...Charles." B.J. smiled at Hawkeye's surprised stare, thinking back to the amazingly candid chat he'd had with the Major. Charles had been an unusual lifeline in the storm...but B.J. would never give the Bostonian the satisfaction by admitting it.

And somehow, he knew Winchester wouldn't have it any other way.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the envelope and freed the letter from its paper bonds. As he unfolded it, something small and flat slipped out and fluttered to the ground. Hawkeye automatically reached down for it as B.J. read through the paragraphs.

Skimming the letter, his fears vanished. Not only was everything fine, Erin was well on her way to a full recovery. "...she wanted to send a Christmas present, so I put it in this letter," he murmured out loud as he read.

"And so she did," Hawkeye commented, examining the "gift" that had fallen out. B.J. glanced up at him and saw what his friend was looking at.

It was a paper heart, a page taken from a coloring book. It was evident who the artist was—the heart had been colored with yellow crayon instead of red, and wasn't even remotely within the lines. But to B.J., it might as well have been gold.

Hawkeye thought for a moment, then took the paper heart and gently pressed it against B.J.'s chest, directly over where the man's real heart was. "I think you just found your missing piece, Beej," he said quietly.

B.J.'s hand reached up and gingerly grasped the page, as though the heart drawn on it would break if he looked at it too long. His eyes locked with Hawkeye's, and the two men shared a conversation that didn't need any words. For the first time in weeks Pierce could see the veil of depression lift from his friend's face, and smiled.

Without realizing it, B.J. had just given him the best Christmas present he could've asked for.

Just then a pair of hands descended from above, one landing on the shoulder of each surgeon. "Good evening, gentlemen," a familiar voice drawled behind them, and they turned to find Charles watching them with a pointed expression.

"Evenin', Charles," B.J. replied. "Grab a cup and sit down."

"Thank you, no," Charles said in a smooth, even voice. The two Captains shared a glance, caught between wariness and amusement. They'd heard that tone before.

"I merely came by to clear up a puzzling mystery," the Major continued, fixing them each in turn with a meaningful glance. "You see, I was willing to overlook what I believed to be merely a boyish prank, with the assumption you both would eventually come to your senses and return what is rightfully _mine_. However, it has been some time since I discovered the noticeable absence, and the emergency supply in my footlocker has started to dwindle."

He took his hands from his roommates' shoulders and folded his arms, his cool demeanor turning to steel. "So now I appeal to your sense of morality, your folkishly quaint 'Christmas spirit', not to mention your deferment to a superior officer—" he ignored Pierce's smirk at the last comment—"and ask you to answer a very simple question." He paused, waiting until he was absolutely certain he held the attention of both men. Then, in his most imperious tone:

"_Where_ are my socks?"

"I dunno, Charles," Hawkeye replied as innocently as he could manage, while B.J. smothered a laugh. "Why don't you write your parents for more?"


End file.
